


The Family Business

by spoileralertitsme



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV), Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alfred is tired, Attempt at Humor, Beware the Court of Owls, Dark Character, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Fluff and Angst, Friendly Sibling Rivalries, Hard Choices and Harder Consequences, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, LGBTQ Characters, Rating May Change, Really just 'Family' anything, The Older Sibs are Tired, Time Travel, mentions of past rape, mentions of past trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2019-08-03 04:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 379,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16319543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spoileralertitsme/pseuds/spoileralertitsme
Summary: After Bruce's death at the hands of the Joker leaves Gotham City vulnerable, it falls to his family to keep up the fight. As Dick takes up his mentor's mantle, and Barbara regains her mobility, the two senior Batkids face their most harrowing challenge yet: parenthood.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Part Two! If you're new, that's okay, since I've tried to make sure the story's more or less straightforward. (If not, let me know, and I'll try to clear a few things up in the next few chapters…) This will pretty much pick up where 'Family History' left off, so basically, in this AU, Barbara Gordon was never Barbara GORDON. If…that makes sense…
> 
> Happy reading!

 

Police sirens cried in the distance, making a few of the newbies wince. But this was Gotham City, and sirens were practically background noise. There was no way that the cops were on their way down to the docks. Not for them, not for anything. No one knew about this job but Karlo Vicenti and his men, and their employer.

And, of course, the hired hands from Central City.

Maybe, if the newbies did well on this job, he would keep them around long enough to get used to the noises. No sense trying to earn a more-or-less-honest living in Gotham if you couldn't handle the heat.

But of course, there was the hitch.

"I say we get rid of the &!^$#." Harmon snapped. He toyed with the gun in his holster, flicking the safety on and off. "Before  _they_ get here."

Jasper snarled his agreement. He pulled his firearm out to point at the huddled group of kids waiting in the open shipping container. They cried out, flinching back from the weapon, eyes wide and tear-filled. Jasper let out a laugh, then turned his gun on the girl strung up a few feet away from them.

She hung by her wrists from one of the smaller cranes, toes just barely scraping the concrete. Underneath her cowl, her eyes were rolled up to the sky. Her lips pursed into a smirk as she bobbed her head listlessly.

"What's she doing?" one of the newbies muttered.

"Freakin' me out is what," Vicenti said. He stalked over to her, and whipped out one of his knives, sticking it underneath her chin.

Her head bobbed a little more carefully, but she didn't seem to even notice him. And, was she…humming?

"Hey," he snapped, jabbing the knife in a little deeper.

The girl stopped, and looked at him. "Huh?"

"What are you doing, &!^$#?"

She cocked her head. "What?"

"I said,  _what the #$%% are you doing?"_ He was shouting now, losing his patience.

"Sorry, pal. Can't hear a word of what you're saying." She shrugged, smiling smugly. "Gimme a sec?"

Vicenti clenched his jaw as the girl pressed the side of her cowl to her shoulder, biting her lip as she concentrated. There was a small  _click,_ and her head shot upright as she grinned.

"Ah, there we go! Just listening to my jams, my dude. You all like Lizzy Dizzy, right?" She nodded to his men. "You, over there, with the scary-lookin' 'stache? I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about, yeah? You seem like a techno pop kinda guy. Now…" She raised an eyebrow as she smirked at Vicenti. "What was that, hon?"

Vicenti cracked his knuckles against her cheek. "How about you shut the #$%% up. Or we'll put a bullet in your head."

The girl flexed her jaw, then smiled, sweetly as ever. "But you've already got a knife to my neck, Mr. Stereotypical Italian Mob Guy."

One of his men made a muffled sound that was suspiciously laugh-like. Vicenti would have to gut him later.

"Besides," the girl continued, rolling her eyes. "My posse's already ticked, what with the human trafficking and all. Not cool, BT-dubs. You guys should've stayed in school or something."

"Yeah?" Vicenti jabbed the knife in deeper. The armor around her throat had to give in eventually. "But we stand to make thousands here tonight, sweetheart. And we're not afraid of your little…posse. Are we, boys?"

The men jeered, waving their pistols in the air. There were a few whimpers from the shipping crate, but those went mostly unnoticed. Vicenti waved his free hand in the air with a smug grin. "Batman's gone, now, isn't he? And the East Side Vipers aren't afraid of no copycats!"

His men bared their teeth, shouting into the night. Vicenti wasn't worried about the noise, though. There was no one here to hear them. He smirked at their pumping fists and stomping feet. The Vipers were one of the strongest gangs this side of Gotham. It would take more than a few little birds to beat them back.

The girl nodded thoughtfully, lips in a pout. "Yeah. I see your point. I mean, you're  _wrong,_ but, like, whatever. As I was  _saying,_ though, you've ticked off the scariest people in the world, buddy. All of you have. You can probably put a bullet in me. If you really want to, I mean. Or the knife. Whatever you've got on hand, amiright?" She smirked. "But you do that, and you just make a bad little situation worse. My family's not in the most…forgiving mood lately. So, listen up little mobsters! I'm just gonna give you all a chance to let those little kids go, cut me down from here—preferably alive, might I add—and the Bats will go easy on you guys. Sound like a deal?"

Vicenti growled, digging the knife in deeper. Now, she was beginning to wince, which meant he was almost through the Kevlar.

"I'll take that as a 'no'," she squeaked. "Suit yourselves. Don't say I didn't warn you, and all of that. Yadda, yadda yadda, blah, blah  _blah_ …" Her eyes rolled skyward, and she called out. "Hey! Have I distracted these bozos long enough, or are you guys just gonna leave me hanging here?"

Everyone froze as a sharp whistle sliced through the air. The cable holding the girl upright snapped in half, and Vicenti gaped at the gleaming batarang lodged in the crane's metal arm.

Batgirl hit the concrete, feet first. She rubbed her wrists, and smirked at them all as their weapons whipped around to point straight at her head. "Ah, there we go," she said. With a mock-surprised smile, she waved her hands apart, tossing the piece of cable off to the side. "Well, would you look at that? It seems _I_ have gotten out of the ropes, and _you’re_ all due for a crap-ton of hurt!"

"Not to mention, you've royally ticked off her…'posse'."

The men all whirled around to gape at the newcomers standing on top of the shipping crate. Robin, Red Hood, and Red Robin glowered down at the mobsters, brandishing their weapons.

"Nice pun, there, BG," Hood said, nudging Red Robin's shoulder so hard that he almost fell off the crate. "Sorry to 'leave you hanging'. Eh? Eh?"

Robin rolled his eyes. "Tt. For once, Hood, at least  _act_ like you know how to be professional."

"Seriously," Red Robin mumbled.

"Eesh. I know a few guys who need to lighten up…" Hood whipped out two pistols and pointed them down at the mobsters. "Now everybody drop your guns before things get ugly!"

But the Vipers didn't answer to anyone, especially not a few teenaged wannabes in costumes. They opened fire.

The Bats hopped off the shipping crate into the fray. Vicenti watched in dismay as the two older boys took down five of his men with a few well-placed kicks and hits. The smaller one, Robin, was leaping from shoulder to shoulder, knocking them down for his partners to knock out. Vicenti felt a slight tap on his shoulder, and turned around.

Batgirl waved at him, smiling sweetly. Then, her fist connected sharply with his jaw.

He tasted the concrete, and watched the girl bound into the fight, swinging her legs and her fists as she whooped and laughed. Vicenti coughed, then pressed a shaking finger to his earpiece.

"H-hello? Yes. Vicenti." He groaned, and rubbed his jaw. It crackled like static. "You…were right. They're here. Will you send us backup?"

The voice came through, arrogant and self-assured.  _"But of course, my dear man. They're already at your location."_

Red Robin flipped over Hood's shoulder, landing on Harmon's face. Hood let out a gleeful shout, and fired off a few rounds into the rest of his standing men, leaving the fallen to the mercy of Batgirl and Robin. Already, they were tying them up.

Vicenti coughed, and got to his knees. One punch from a little girl shouldn't have hurt that bad…

"Well, well, Karlo Vicenti," Hood said.

Vicenti looked up, and saw all four of the Bats standing above him. They were gloating, wide smirks on their faces, arms crossed over their armored chests. Their masks seemed to glow in the dim dock lights, and he shuddered.

"This was…surprisingly easy," Batgirl mused, raising a cocky eyebrow at her teammates.

"Mm." Red Robin glowered. Then whirled around, catching a small projectile in his hand. A second later, and it would have lodged into the back of his head. The others stepped back, watching as he inspected it closely. "Wait—"

The small dart exploded, leaking out billows of dark colored smoke. Gas, Vicenti realized. He hurried to cover his mouth with the collar of his shirt, and rolled away quickly. The Bats coughed, sinking to their knees.

Vicenti started, and leapt to his feet just as a horde of thugs burst out of the shadows. They ran out from behind shipping crates and cranes, all converging on the incapacitated Bats.

Leading the way was a large man, easily the tallest and strongest-looking Vicenti had ever seen. Inhuman muscles rippling, his footsteps shook the dock as he marched forward, and the men seemed to flinch back a little as he passed. He came to a halt right above the teenagers, and reached down to pick up the Red Hood. His fist curled around the smaller man's neck as he lifted him to eye-level.

"You must be the ringleader," the giant said. His Latin accent was heavy. "Shall I crush your skull and make your  _compadres_ watch?"

Hood gurgled, and reached up to point one choice finger in the giant's face. "Hard pass, Bane old buddy."

The three Bats on the ground started to get up. The reinforcements closed their circle, and pointed their guns at their heads. Hesitantly, they put their gloved hands on their heads.

"I would love to break your bones. But sadly, you are needed aboard my employers' ship."

"A ship, huh? How professional." Batgirl scowled.

With a nod from the giant, a few of the thugs stepped forward, and yanked the Bats to their feet, wrenching their arms behind their backs. Robin started to put up a fight, but stopped when Bane squeezed Hood's throat, eliciting a small squeak.

"Now. Come quietly,  _niños,_ and perhaps I'll spare your big brother's life."

As if on cue, a yacht lit up at the end of the pier, lights glowing in the night and reflecting off the choppy waves. The Bats grunted as they were shuffled forward, and towards the menacing boat. The giant thundered down the wooden pier, then paused to glance back at Vicenti.

"You are coming, yes?" he demanded. Vicenti nodded, and climbed hurriedly to his feet.

"Harmon, Jasper," he barked, "Watch the crate. I'll meet you back here at a quarter after three."

"No," Bane said, continuing his march. "You will return when _he_ says you can return. Now follow me, little foot soldier. This is going to be very fun."

Vicenti scowled, and followed after the procession.

They didn't pay him nearly enough for this crap.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Gotta hand it to you, Bane," Stephanie snarked. "You sure know how to pick out a nice boat. But, drawback. You're probably too big to fit inside, not to mention, you're probably gonna sink this whole thing any minute. Probably should have sprung for the freighter. Or maybe shoulda laid off the chimichangas, if you catch my drift."

One of the thugs clapped her upside the head, but she barely felt it thanks to her reinforced cowl. Still, the gesture was annoying, and she stuck her tongue out at the stone-faced man. Bane sighed heavily and lifted Jason up to eye-level. He still hadn't let go of the poor guy, and Steph was starting to worry a little bit that her boyfriend was going to suffocate from the villain's tight grip. "Does this one ever stop talking?" he asked.

"Not so much," Tim said, shrugging. "We keep her around for the comedic value."

"Ah. Rude." Steph received another smack.

"I doubt he's serious, Fatgirl. You are not humorous in the slightest." Damian stood sullenly next to Stephanie, barely restrained by two unfortunate thugs. He could have easily taken them down, and probably would have by now, if not for the circumstances. Namely, the fact that Jason was dangling like a ragdoll from Bane's left fist, and was probably turning purple underneath that red helmet of his.

And, of course, there was the mission to consider.

"I oughta smack you, kid," Steph muttered. "Hey, Baney, how long we gotta stand here? On a boat deck, not going anywhere? Is there, like, a purpose to all this? I'm hungry, tired, cold, and frankly, I kinda want to see the inside of your sweet ride. Think you could swing that for us? Huh? And, hey, does this tub have a glass bottom? That would be so cool."

Bane squeezed Hood's neck again until Jason made a sound that reminded Steph of a rubber chicken. "If you do not stop babbling, Batgirl, I will toss this one over the side, no matter what my employer says. Am I clear?"

Steph clicked her tongue. She would've shot him the 'ok' sign, but since her arms were being stretched behind her back, she settled for a saucy wink. "You're as clear as the glass bottom of this boat, hon. Assuming there is one, at least."

" _Ay, Dios mio,"_ Bane muttered. "Listen. We are going to wait in silence. They will be up on deck soon."

The Batkids nodded, staring straight ahead. Whoever was coming to meet them had probably arranged the shipment of children waiting on the dock. Stephanie didn't have a ton of patience for human trafficking, and was looking forward to seeing who she'd get to punch in the face tonight. This wasn't the first case they'd seen, even this week. Women and children had been disappearing all over Gotham, ending up on ships and trucks bound for elsewhere. Besides that, gang activity was up all over the city, and the crime rate had never been higher. It was as if the whole underworld knew, deep down, that the real Batman was…Steph couldn't think about that right now. Better to focus on the mission. It was about time that they started to get some idea of who was behind all of this.

Hold up.

She turned to Damian, incredulous. "Did you just call me  _Fatgirl?"_

"Be silent," Bane snapped. "They are here."

The sliding doors ahead of them slid open slowly, and everyone on deck perked up like obedient pit bulls. And as the boss sauntered out of the yacht's cabin, Stephanie couldn't help but raise an eyebrow.

The woman was drop-dead gorgeous. Sleek red dress that clung to her curves, and was just long and short enough in all the right places to leave all the right things on display. Her golden hair was curled elaborately, and fell over half of her face, giving off a mysteriously shy appearance. She definitely didn't match the thing she was holding in her arms.

Mr. Scarface. The creepy little ventriloquist doll that could apparently talk all on his own.

_Yikes._

"Well, well," Stephanie said, cocking her head. "Arnold Wesker? You're looking well, for a guy who just got out of Arkham. And very…feminine. New hairstyle?"

"Hey!" Scarface snapped, literally. His little wooden mouth made a smacking sound as he shouted. "Nobody talks to my Sugar like that! Twins, toss her over the side!"

Two women emerged out of the cabin, both dressed in identical costumes. Dark red bodysuits and pale face masks. The Kabuki Twins. They lunged forward, razor-bladed fingers gleaming, and Stephanie took a sharp step back, almost knocking over the two thugs holding her arms behind her back.

"Wait!" Tim shouted. "Wait, Mr. Scarface. There's a reason you want us all on board your ship, right? That's why you didn't have Bane just kill us outright. You want  _all_ of us."

The creepy dummy paused, then turned his little head to look up at the woman in red. "Whaddya think, Sugar? Should I toss the snarky little blonde over the side? Or do we still need her?"

The lady looked up, and caught Stephanie's glance. Her lips parted hesitantly, then she said, sweetly, "Oh, no, Mr. Scarface. Please don't throw her overboard. We need them all for the auction."

"Auction?" Damian squared his shoulders. "What  _auction?_ "

Mr. Scarface shook his head. His little painted eyes never blinked. "Heh. 'What auction', he says. Listen here, brats. You know how many guys like me wanted to nail the Batman themselves? Lotta people are pretty upset that he's pushin' up daisies, and they ain't the reason why. So? That gives us a bit of a business opportunity, see. And that's—take me closer, Sugar, will ya?"

The woman shuffled forward, so that Mr. Scarface was just a foot or two away from Tim.

"And that's where you little dummies come in." The doll's face never moved, just his mouth. It was beyond creepy. Steph shuddered slightly. "Just think how much someone'd pay to get their hands on one of the Batman's little brats, to take out all their little frustrations on! Killing ya, maiming ya. Folks are gonna pay top dollar to whack you kids."

"Huh," Stephanie said weakly. "Fun."

"Course, it'd be much better if we'd gotten that wannabe Batman, too. Everybody knows he ain't the real deal, but still. Think how much someone'd fork over to put a bullet in that guy's head, eh Sugar?"

Sugar nodded. "Yes, Mr. Scarface. Quite a lot."

"Still," he mused, mostly to himself. "We've got plenty of revenue comin' in from those kids we're selling overseas, not to mention all the loot Croc and Firefly've been sharing. And, of course, there's that salary from Cobblebutt. Still though. This's gonna be big, Sugar. We'll be real big players in this city, if we manage to pull this gig off first."

"Yes, Mr. Scarface. Really big."

Stephanie shared a glance with Tim, and both nodded slightly.

"Salary?" Tim queried. "So, you're working for Penguin?"

"Scarface doesn't work for anybody!" The puppet roared. "That old bird just pays me my dues, you hear? Just what I earn off the top. I ain't nobody's stooge!"

Sugar hushed him, running well-manicured fingers over the dummy's little felt fedora. He seemed to calm down a bit. "Just what I earn. But once I sell you brats off to the highest bidder,  _I'll_ be the one runnin' the show."

"I'm sure," Stephanie said drily. "Of course, I'm with you. It really is too bad that you couldn't get the new Batman. He probably would've gone for, like, a few hundred thousand, right? Still, I'll bet you could get more if…well, I don't know…"

"That's what I've been sayin'!" The puppet snapped. "But wait. What? More? What're you getting at, dummy?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Jason's finger slide to his belt buckle. She returned her gaze to the front, staring down the unblinking little puppet. "It's just…I dunno. I just think you could get at least a few  _million_ if you had the matching set."

"Matching set? What the #&%% are you getting at?"

"You know," Tim pressed. "The matching set. One Batman…well. That's impressive. But if you had  _both_ of the Big Bats, just think how much money you could make."

"I don't know what they're talking about," Scarface said, "Bane, what're they talking about?"

"I have not the slightest idea."

Jason nodded to Steph, who nodded to Tim, who nodded to Damian. The Kabuki Twins cocked their heads in confusion, and even the other people on board the yacht seemed a little put-off by the Batkid's sudden silence.

"What? What is it?" Scarface demanded.

There were two slight  _thuds_ on the roof of the yacht. They were subtle; only a trained ear would have been able to detect such soft landing noises.

But the Batkids had been listening to each other move for years. They resisted the urge to glance up, and instead focused on the people in front of and behind them.

"The matching set," Damian reaffirmed.

Steph shrugged her shoulders with a flippant smile. "That's right. May as well just give up now."

Mr. Scarface's mouth clicked angrily. "Listen up, dummies. No one's givin' up, and no one's goin' anywhere. Hear? Bane! Take 'em below, and find some way to shut 'em up."

"Of course," Bane rumbled.

He and the Vipers started forward, Bats in tow. But Tim finally glanced up, and caught the eyes of the two figures crouched on top of the roof. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he dragged his heels. "Oh, I don't think that's a good idea."

"Huh?" Scarface whirled on Red Robin. "Why's that?"

Stephanie was almost bouncing on her heels, grinning, and Tim cocked his head.

"Well, we wouldn't want to miss the show."

A pair of capes snapped open as the newcomers flew from the roof, making perfect silhouettes against the night sky. Their bodies curved with momentum, mouths curled into twin snarls. Everyone staggered backward, and a dozen guns fired off at the two Bats.

The Batman rolled as he hit the deck. His fist swung out, catching Vipers and thugs in the face, the abdomen, the jaw. Bullets bounced harmlessly off his cape as he kicked out. The other figure sailed over his head, her two hands gripping Bane's shoulder straps.

Batwoman flipped herself over Bane's head, and drew out a gleaming batarang. With a sharp  _snik,_ it sliced cleanly through his venom tubes. They flailed, leaking and spraying sickly orange fluid onto the deck, and Bane cried out, dropping Jason like a hot potato. The Red Hood steadied himself on his knees with both hands, heaving for breath. Steph was at his side in an instant.

"Hey, you good?"

He rubbed his neck. "Peachy. Can I punch that guy in the face now?"

Steph smirked, and turned to watch the melee. "I think the Boss-lady's already beat you to it."

Batwoman's arms were wrapped around the giant's thick neck, and she was pulling backwards with all of her weight. The thugs on the ground were out of commission, and Batman lunged forward to help. He collided with Bane's abdomen, hitting low while his partner hit high. The giant villain bellowed and fell backward, unmoving.

Batman and Batwoman sprang up, working quickly to tie Bane's wrists and ankles together with thick grappling cable. Batwoman looked up at them, and said, "Enjoying the show?"

Batman tugged hard on part of the cable. "Get Scarface, you guys. Help us out a little."

They were interrupted by the Kabuki twins' slicing razor-fingers. Batwoman yelped a little as one of the blades raked her side. "Hey! New suit, guys."

While they tangled with the twins, Tim and Damian bounded after Sugar. She was trying desperately to climb out onto the pier, but was a bit hindered by her long dress and the thrashing puppet in her arms. Scarface was shouting something about 'never running from a fight', and 'I ain't no coward!'. Sugar seemed determined to ignore her boss and make their escape.

She was foiled, of course, by a quick jab to the neck courtesy of Red Robin. While he tied Sugar's wrists behind her, Damian reached down to pick up the small ventriloquist dummy. He scowled at the thing, and held it at arm's length. "Horrid."

Steph and Jason sprinted past them up onto the pier. They raced all the way back to the shipping crate and made short work of the two Viper thugs guarding the kids. The poor men hit the ground before they could even turn around.

Stephanie peered into the big metal box. A dozen pairs of wide eyes blinked back at her. "Hey, everybody! Looks like we get to go home now, alright?"

No response.

She stepped inside, Jason close behind her, and knelt down next to one of the little girls. The kid flinched away, crying out, and Steph pulled a small flashlight from her belt. The sudden light made everyone blink hard. Steph saw that everyone had been bound with zip ties or handcuffs. That made her blood boil.

"Wow, you're all pretty brave, right, Hood?" She nudged Jason's shoulder. He shook his head a little, and stopped gaping at the scene. Then, straightening, he nodded.

"Right."

"You know, I doubt I could have stayed this quiet for so long. You guys are like ninjas!"

A few blinks. A few hesitant smiles.

Steph glanced up at Jason. "Uh…well, you're all okay now. We're going to get you guys back home to your families."

"And," Jason added, "To those of you from the Narrows, we've got a friend who'll give you a place to stay for a while. Her name is Leslie Thompkins, and she's awesome."

"Yeah!" Steph pulled out a batarang, one of the sharp ones, and got to work slicing zip ties. Her partner crouched down and started picking the locks on the handcuffs. "And, tell you what, kiddos. Since you guys were all so brave tonight, we're getting everybody ice cream!"

That perked the kids right up.

"Really?"

"Where?"

"I want some!"

They all chattered and squirmed, making it a little more difficult to undo their restraints. But they finished quickly, and led the kids outside. A few GCPD patrol cars were already zooming up, lighting up the scene like a Christmas tree, and filling the air with loud sirens.

The others were already waiting, and Batman stepped forward to talk to Commissioner Gordon as soon as he stepped out of one of the cars. Batwoman turned, and smiled at the small horde of children headed her way.

"Good work, guys," she said, smiling. Steph noticed that she kept shifting her feet, practically dancing in place. "Batman and I got your signal just as we were taking care of Freeze. Did you get the intel we needed?"

Tim nodded. "We did. But I think that's a discussion we should save for the cave."

"Sounds good," Batwoman said. Then, to the kids, "You've all had a rough night, haven't you? But don't worry, you're safe now. We got the bad guys all tied up, and we're ready to take you home."

Jason coughed into his fist. Which was a bit ridiculous, seeing as he still had the helmet on. "Yeah. About that…"

Batman made his way over to the group, and nudged Batwoman's arm. "No sign of the Kabukis, but Gordon's men are already taking the rest into custody. I offered to help escort them to Arkham and Blackgate, but they've got it covered. Oh, and Gordon says that he and his officers can make sure that these guys all get home safely." He nodded to the assembled group.

One little girl, probably no more than six, stepped forward and tugged on Batman's cape. He gaped down at her as she said, shyly, "But…ice cream?"

He raised an eyebrow underneath the cowl. "Uh…what?"

"Yeah," Stephanie said. "First things first…"

 

 

* * *

 

 

"And, if Alfred asks,  _that_ is how we ended up in an ice cream parlor with thirty-seven small children," Dick said, raising a finger. "Understand?"

Barbara laughed as the others licked at their cones. Then gasped. "Eyes on the road, Grayson!"

She lunged for the wheel, but Dick managed to swerve out of the way just in time. The semi-truck honked loud and long as it streaked past. There was a sharp cry from the backseat, and Barbara craned her neck to make sure everyone was alright.

Everyone was, except for Tim. Stephanie's huckleberry ice cream covered half of his face, dripping down his nose and chin. His eyes were squinted shut, and he heaved a resigned sigh. Stephanie was pouting at her now-empty waffle cone while Jason and Damian snickered behind their hands.

"It's okay, Steph," Barbara said, "I'm sure Jason would be more than happy to share his."

"Wait, what?"

Barbara rolled her eyes with a smile. "Tim, you okay?"

"Yeah."

"Good." She turned to face forwards again, and shot Dick a small smile. "Just try to keep it from dripping on the seat, yeah?"

Dick shook his head, and steered them into the cave system. The headlights bounced on the rocky walls as they shot through the dark tunnels. "See, this is why we shouldn't have food in the car."

"Says the guy steering with one hand and eating Rocky Road with the other."

He licked his cone ironically and stuck out his sticky tongue. "Touché."

"Alright, guys," Barbara said, "Let's compare notes. Dick and I caught Freeze during a bank robbery, but he had thugs from the Burnside Bengals helping him load the trucks. In  _addition_ to the Grievers from over by Cherry Hill helping to bag the cash."

Damian scowled at his Mint Chocolate Chip. "The Bengals and Grievers share a rivalry, don't they?"

"That's right. Which is why this little alliance is…off-putting." Dick swerved into another tunnel, and Tim ducked away from everyone's waving hands. Jason seemed determined to 'accidentally' smash his Raspberry Ripple into his brother's face, but Tim was putting up a good struggle.

Steph grabbed Jason's wrist, and sneaked a quick lick from his cone before adding, "Not to mention that Bane and his guys were working with the Vipers tonight. They can't stand each other, either."

"And," Tim said, "Most importantly, Scarface mentioned something about earning a 'salary' from the Penguin. I think this confirms what we've already suspected."

Barbara nodded, staring at the end of the tunnel, getting closer and closer as they neared the underground entrance to the Cave. "That the underworld smells blood in the water, and they're making the alliances needed to take us down. They're all forming into collective factions."

The Cave opened up, and Dick parked the Batmobile squarely in the center. He pressed the button, and the hatch slid open to let everyone hop out.

"Ee-yup," Jason said, stretching. "The creepy little puppet man also said something about selling us each off to the highest bidder. Apparently, lots of freaks in this town want to shell out some big bucks to knock our blocks off. 'Specially you, Dick."

His arm stretched out, and caught an unsuspecting Tim by surprise. The red and white ice cream dropped into his spiked hair, and he cried out. "Jason!"

"Wha—oh, sorry, Timbo. Must've slipped."

"I wasn't done with that yet, Jay!" Steph complained.

"Hey, sweetheart, it's not all gone. We can lick it out of Timmy's hair…"

It was a bit scary sometimes, those twin evil grins that those two often got. Barbara snorted a little as she watched Tim flee the scene, Jason and Stephanie hot on his heels, tongues waving. Damian huffed as he walked by. "Idiots."

As soon as they were all out of earshot, Barbara turned to Dick. "Does it ever weird you out, that the most mature out of those kids still has his baby-teeth?"

Her partner didn't answer. He leaned back against the Batmobile, gazing at the cave with lidded eyes.

"Dick?"

"Hmm? Oh…Yeah. Weird."

She stepped over, and removed her mask. Then, leaning up against the car next to him, she laid a head on his shoulder. She could feel his tight muscles relax a little. "I know," she said. "But you're doing great."

"How great? Everyone knows it's not really…him. In the suit. Just me."

"Hey. That's not true. You saw Freeze, didn't you? He didn't even question it." Her brow furrowed. What was the point? They'd been down this particular path of conversation before, and it always came right back down to the same thing. "I miss him too. But I know he'd be proud of you, Dick."

"Well, we might never know," he said hollowly. Then, he paused, and straightened. A grin spread up his face. "But, hey. Enough whining. We should be celebrating! How does it feel?"

She beamed, and stood up straight. At attention. "Honestly?" It feels—"

"Wait." He squinted at a spot behind her head. "What's…?"

She turned to look over her shoulder, and gasped as something dark and rough came down over her head. Everything went black in an instant. She could feel Dick scoop her up in his arms, laughing as he bounded forward. Barbara squealed and threw her arms around his neck.

"What's going on?" she demanded. "Get this thing off me!"

"Not…not quite yet," Dick gasped. He was laughing so hard, it was difficult to tell what he was saying at first.

"Grayson, I  _swear—!"_

They went into the elevator; Barbara could hear the doors opening and closing, once and then again. She bounced up and down as Dick jogged through the manor, and she listened to the sound of the back door opening and shutting. A cool breeze leaked in through the black cloth bag her boyfriend had thrown over her head.

Gently, he set her down, and pulled off the hood.

"Surprise!" Everyone shouted.

They'd set up strings of lights all over the yard, and strung up a hand-made sign from two of the trees. The painted-on letters spelled out WELCOME BACK BABS! in bright red. Underneath that, Alfred was standing beside a table with a few boxes of pizza and bottles of soda. The old butler smiled at her, while her siblings eyed the food like hawks.

Barbara laughed, and crossed her arms over her stomach. "What's this, guys?"

"Uh," Jason said, pointing emphatically up at the sign. "Whaddya think?"

Dick looped his arm through hers, and marched her towards the table, grinning from ear to ear. "Well, this is celebrating the end of a very long journey. Two years in a wheelchair, nine hours of intensive surgery,  _months_ of physical therapy—"

"And threatening to kill your physical therapist," Steph added, crunching her way through the last of Jason's cone. "Poor guy."

"Not to mention months of listening to her complain about the therapy," Jason said, smirking.

Barbara rolled her eyes. "Wow, thanks guys."

Dick cleared his throat. " _All_ of which culminated tonight, your very first night back out on patrol. The grand debut of the Batwoman. And I think we can all say that we're glad to have you back, Babs."

He slid his hand to the back of her neck, and leaned down to kiss her. The others clapped.

After a few moments, she pulled away, smiling. Alfred clapped his hands, and said, "Right, then. I suppose we'd better dig into the food before Master Damian takes matters into his own hands."

Damian was scratching Titus behind the ears with one gloved hand, and staring down the pizza through narrowed eyes.

The Batkids fell on the food like it was their last meal, not even bothering with the paper plates Alfred had carefully set out. They'd just gotten back from a busy night of patrol, after all, and patrols usually left them famished. So, when there were five different kinds of pizza to consider, there was no time to waste. And no one cared that it was close to four in the morning; they were used to it.

Barbara polished off her last slice of barbeque chicken, then raised an eyebrow at Alfred. "Um, should we be outside like this? Full uniforms, no masks?"

Tim had just finished wiping the ice cream off his face and hair with a wad of napkins. He nodded. "I swept the area. No hidden cameras or lost tourists for miles. I also hacked the satellites in orbit above the manor."

"Cause Google Earth's always taking pics," Jason cut in. He dove in for a fifth slice of meat lovers'.

"Huh. Good job, Timmy," Barbara said.

He gave a little self-satisfied hum, before returning to his food.

Stephanie and Damian were sitting cross-legged on the grass nearby, two pizza boxes laid out between them. They never broke eye contact as they shoved piece after piece into their mouths.

"Gip uff yeh, 'amian?" Steph said around a mouth full of pepperoni and sausage. Damian just grunted in response. He tried to say something that sounded a bit like 'honor', but Barbara couldn't be sure.

Jason snagged one of the two-liter bottles of root beer and shoved it into Tim's arms. "Dare you to chug the whole thing, Timbo."

"Uh, no." Tim tried to shove it back while Alfred smiled and shook his head.

Dick's arms wrapped around her stomach from behind, and Barbara could feel his warm breath against her ear. He'd pulled down his cowl, and now his dark hair tickled her forehead. "You okay?"

She sighed, and tilted her head back. "Fine. Just watching. I think Steph and Dami are gonna choke."

"Aw, they'll be fine." He planted a soft kiss against her neck, and she smiled. "Wanna use those legs?"

She scoffed at his sly tone, and reached back to elbow him in the side. "Grayson…!"

He laughed. "I mean, do you want to dance?"

"You're kidding, right?" She spun around, beaming. "#$%%, Dick. I thought you'd never ask."

"Good."

Dick smiled, and brought out his cellphone. He tapped the screen a few times, then laid it carefully on the corner of the table. He took her hand, helped her kick off her boots while he did the same, and led her a few feet away as a slow song started to play. Guitar, plucked in a bright, easy-going tune. A man's voice sang in the background as Dick laid one hand on the small of her back, and she placed her hand on his shoulder.

They swayed back and forth. Barbara loved the feeling of the cold, wet grass on her bare skin. She loved being able to stand, to step, to feel her legs respond to her unconscious demands. For the first time in years, she danced.

She couldn't help but grin as she watched Dick smirk, mouthing the words to the song.

" _When you looked over your shoulder, for a minute I forget that I'm older…I wanna dance with you right now."_ He threw his head back. " _OoOh and, you look, as beautiful as ever, and I swear that every day you get better…you make me feel this way somehow…"_

Barbara tossed her hair and laughed.

The others looked over, and smiled as their two older siblings giggled and danced underneath the string lights. They put aside their pizza and drinks, and sat in a semi-circle, just watching. It was the first time they'd seen Dick and Babs smile and laugh quite like this since…well, it had been a while. Steph caught hold of Alfred's sleeve, and coaxed the man to sit down on the wet grass next to her. Jason settled down on her other side, and slipped his fingers into hers.

Barbara and Dick both pressed their foreheads together, smiling as they both mouthed the words, " _I wanna live with you…even when we're ghosts…'cause you were always there for me when I needed you most…I'm gonna love you till, my lungs give out…I promise till death we part like in our vows…so I wrote this song for you, now everybody knows, 'cause now it's just you and me till we're gray and old…"_

Jason sighed, and leaned into Stephanie. "Ah, nerd love."

"I think it's sweet," she whispered back.

Tim tapped a finger to his lips. "You guys are ruining the moment."

Damian sniffed. "Tt. What moment?"

Alfred was too busy smiling at his two young charges to comment. Not so young anymore. But, like Master Bruce had told him, they were ready for whatever the world had in store. They, and the children gathered in the grass around him, were a family. And Alfred knew that tonight, Miss Barbara's first night back on her feet, marked the beginning of a new chapter.

Master Bruce would be so proud.

" _Just say you won't let go…Oh, just say you won't let go."_

 

 


	2. Invitations

 

"Ha! I win, old man!"

Barbara spun the bo staff in her hand, grinning a mile-wide. She could feel the sweat on her skin, the shortness of breath heavy in her lungs. Her vision swirled a little, head spinning. Her muscles were still warm and shaking from the effort, but she had done it. She'd finally beaten the Batman in a sparring match.

Bruce smiled easily and tossed aside his own staff. "Good work. But let's see how you handle hand-to-hand?"

Barbara's face lit up as she readied her fists in front of her chest.

A thousand silent instructions whirled through her mind:  _Guard your chest….guard your face…use your speed advantage…strike!_

She lunged forward, and clipped Bruce's shoulder with one fist. It was a reach; he was a good foot and a half taller than she was.

He swung, she dodged. He kicked, she jumped. He swiped, she attacked.

It was a dance familiar to both of them. Bruce laughed as she jumped up, and clapped both hands down on his shoulders. Midair, her body twisted, and she planted the bottoms of both feet in the small of her mentor's back. Then, kicked out, and flipped midair to land cat-like on her toes.

It didn't knock him down—he'd been expecting the sudden forward force—but he did hold out a fist for her to tap with hers. A sign to tell her the fight was over. A sign of praise.

"Quite the acrobatic move," he said, raising an eyebrow. "I'm guessing Dick taught you that?"

Barbara sighed. "Puh-lease. Your little circus boy won't even talk to me." She readied herself, sliding into another ready-stance. "Still hates my guts."

Bruce complied with her silent request for another match, and put up both fists. "He doesn't hate you."

"That's what you always say, Boss-man."

He threw an experimental swing. "Give it time. He still needs to come to grips with everything. A new partner's a big change." He kicked up towards her face. She caught his ankle in one hand, and spun with a roundhouse kick of her own. Her heel connected with his jaw, and he let out a grunt as he fell backwards. Bruce shook out his shoulders, then smiled up from the ground. "Good technique. Remember, an opponent leaves themselves weaker when they kick out, like I just did. You were able to use my own size and momentum against me."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, B-man." Barbara grinned, and reached out to give her mentor a hand up.

His fingers twined with hers, and she started to pull him up. But he wouldn't budge.

She pulled harder, but the larger man wouldn't move. "Bruce?"

A sickly smile spread over her mentor's face as he reached behind his back. His face paled and paled, until it was snowy white. His hair grew out before her eyes and turned a sickly shade of green. Bruce tipped back his head and laughed as he whipped out a long, gleaming revolver.

"Shoulda looked twice, baby bat!" Bruce cackled.

She dove back, but not before the gun went off.

Smoke curled through the air, and Barbara's ears rang as she glanced down and saw the gaping hole in her middle. It seeped crimson blood that flowed down and spread across the Cave tiles, forming something that looked like a wide, jagged smile.

The ground seemed to sway beneath her feet, and she brought her shaking hands to her abdomen. Tears brimmed in her wide eyes as she looked up at Bruce. Her breathing came in ragged gasps, and the pain finally hit like a freight train.

Barbara's jaw came unhinged as she let out a blood-curdling scream.

Bruce got to his feet, laughing manically. He stepped forward, forward, his footsteps squelching in the sticky red pools of blood as he reached out and caught her throat in one pale, powerful hand. She gurgled as he squeezed, grinning and cackling. The sound grated against her ears.

But the laughter suddenly took on a more desperate note, and she looked up. The glint in Bruce's eyes was fear, not glee. The peals of mirth were beginning to sound more and more like…not laughter, but…

Screaming.

The grip on her neck disappeared as her mentor staggered backward. He gasped for breath between laughs, still grinning like a maniac, and raised the revolver.

Barbara flinched back with a cry, but this time, the shot wasn't meant for her.

Bruce stuck the pistol up to his temple with hands shaking from so much giggling.

"Suh…sor…rry…" he gasped. Both corners of his mouth stretched wider, impossibly wider. "Sor…eheee…eeheehee!"

Barbara screamed as the gun went off. Her mentor fell to the bloody ground like a puppet whose strings had been abruptly cut. She started forward, but another figure stepped out in front of her. The newcomer laughed, and seized both her wrists in one fist. Her skin chafed from his tight grip.

The light shifted, and she could see Robin's—Dick's—face. Pale as a skeleton, and twice as frightening. He laughed, and pushed back, pressing her against the cave wall with both arms stretched above her head.

"Babs!" He laughed, blue eyes streaming. His hair had gone green like Bruce's. "Babs scaring! Scaring…you…scaring…"

One more person stepped out of the shadows. His grin was the first thing she saw; wide red scars and yellowed teeth. Then, his narrowed eyes.

"Oh, my dear little Batgirl," the Joker said, voice sinuously smooth. "Did you really think that I would  _ever_ leave you alone? Goodness, no! In fact, I'm going to keep finding my way back to you, my sweet little she-bat. I can't  _wait_ to watch you scream!"

He laughed. Dick snapped his teeth in her face.

"Barbara…don't…!"

Joker stepped closer, into the light. He was dressed from head to toe in black, complete with a long, flowing cape. His grin widened. "What are you waiting for, little bird? Kill her!"

Dick brought his hand up, cackling. Clenched in his fist was a long, wicked looking knife. It glinted in the dim light, and Barbara could see her wide eyes reflected in the silver surface.

Barbara shook. "Please, Dick, don't—"

"Hey!" he said, "Babs…Babs!"

The blade came down.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A scream burst out of her throat as her eyes flew open.

No Cave. No blood. No corpse, no Joker, no knife.

Just her bedroom, dark and silent. Her sheets were twisted around her ankles, and she could feel a slight chill on her skin from cold-sweat. She breathed deeply, gasping, and glancing around the room for psycho clowns and rabid partners, but she was alone.

Except, of course, for Dick.

He was kneeling on the mattress next to her, holding both of her wrists in his clammy, shaking hands. She glanced up at him, shivering. His black hair was sticking up every which-way, and even in the dark, she could see two dark patches underneath both of his eyes. He let out a sigh of relief, and wrapped her up in his arms.

"Hey, Babs," he whispered, "Just another dream. I got you."

She shuddered, and leaned into him. His hand stroked her hair slowly.

"So real tonight," she muttered, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Well, I'll bet. You scared the #$%% out of me, there." He hummed. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I was thirteen again." She huffed. "Sparring with Bruce. Then…Joker…"

"Alright. I get the picture." He squeezed her tighter, and Barbara sighed.

She couldn't remember who’d had the first nightmare, just that she'd woken up one night to Dick's whimpering through the thin walls, and crawled into bed with him to lend him some semblance of comfort. A few nights later, he'd returned the favor when she'd almost disconnected her jaw screaming herself hoarse. The cycle repeated itself for a few weeks, before they'd finally decided on sharing Barbara's bed every night.

And they'd had to. The nightmares came almost nightly now. Barbara was just relieved that the others' rooms weren't nearby enough for them to hear much. They didn't need to hear their older siblings losing it every time they closed their eyes.

And, lucky for her and Dick, when (and if) the younger Batkids did sleep, they slept like the dead.

Dick pressed his lips to her cheek, then whispered into her ear. She leaned back against his shoulder, listening.

He whispered the security protocols that protected the manor, the defense measures, everything that kept them all safe. His voice was smooth, and deep, and rough; it always got this way after he'd just woken up. "You're safe. I'm safe. We're both here, in this bed, in this house, right now…"

It was another thing that they did: grounding. Reminding each other of the 'here and now' to get their minds off the night terrors, and remind them of where, when and  _who_ they were.

"Your name is Barbara Delphi." Dick's voice rumbled softly against her ear. She could feel the vibrations of his voice buzz against her back as she leaned against his chest. "'Delphi' because Damian decided you needed a last name, since you didn't have one when you joined the family. Do you remember why he decided on that?"

She swallowed. "Because of the ancient Greek 'Oracle of Delphi'. When he first met me, I went by Oracle."

"Good." He sighed. His hands slid down to her stomach, and he held her there, protectively. "Your turn, Babs."

She closed her eyes. "Your name," she said softly, tipping her head back to rest under his chin. "Is Richard John Grayson. 'Richard' after one of your ancestors. 'John' after your father. We call you 'Dick', because that's what your parents called you before you joined the family. That's literally the only reason, because nowadays, that nickname means—"

"Hey!" He jabbed a finger into her side, and she let out a laugh. "Low blow."

She lifted his arms above her head, and turned to wrap her own around his neck. Her forehead rested against his, and she let out a breathy exhale of laughter. Her eyes flicked up to his, and she could see his blue irises staring back at her, almost black in the darkness.  “I need something else to think about.”

"Yeah?" He smiled, hesitantly. Eagerly.

"Well, I'm awake now, at any rate." She raised an eyebrow, and ran her thumb along the side of his face. "So, yes. Please. If you’re up for it.”

“Hey.” He settled back against the headboard. His voice was soft, fond, and the sound of it sent a chill shivering over her skin. “I’d love to.”

“Good,” she said. Then leaned down, pressing her lips over his.

They didn't always do this. Most nights, they kept each other company just for the reassurance that there was someone there to help get them through the nightmares. Most of the time, it was just for security. But every once in a while, there was steam that needed to be let off. Every once in a while, they needed each other.

Barbara's pajama top hadn't even reached the top of her stomach when a small knock at the door made both of them freeze. They waited in silence.

Nothing…

Nothing.

"'Kay," Dick whispered. "Probably came from the window or something? A tree branch—"

_Knockknockknock._

"Nope." They both sighed simultaneously, and Barbara hurriedly slid off of Dick's stomach.

Not a moment too soon. The door slid open with a slight creak, and Damian's small head peeked through the gap. His eyes blinked hard as he squinted into the room. The poor kid had probably only been awake just long enough to stumble up a flight of stairs and down a set of hallways to get to Barbara's room.

"Delphi?" He moaned. "Did I wake you?"

"Oh, um." She cleared her throat. "No, Dami. Not at all. Do you need anything?"

He glanced down at the carpet. His brow furrowed as he screwed up his face. It seemed to take all of his willpower to look up at her and say, "I…experienced an unpleasant dream. I was hoping that you would…be so kind as to…offer me a place in your bed. For protection." He winced, and only sped up from there. "There are…disturbing sounds coming from the floorboards. Drake assured me the other night that it was just the manor 'settling', but I'm not so certain, and I feel that there is greater safety in numbers, so—"

"Damian," Barbara interjected, smiling softly. "It's okay. Of course you can come sleep with me tonight."

He nodded, and let out a small breath of relief. He stepped in, and shut the door behind him. The soft light from the hallway was still seared into her retinas, and she blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust back to the soft darkness of the room. Damian's small feet padded quietly across the carpet over to the edge of the bed.

"Oh," he said, "Hello, Grayson. Trouble sleeping?"

"Yeah." Dick breathed out a small laugh, moving over to make some room for the boy. "Something like that."

Damian climbed over Dick's legs, and settled into the warm, soft space between his two oldest siblings. He settled down into the soft pillows, and pulled the sheets and blankets up over himself, tucking them underneath his chin. As a result, Dick and Barbara were now underneath the covers themselves, and with matching sighs, they laid down and rested their heads on their elbows.

"This is not a show of weakness," Damian muttered, face half buried in the pillowcase. "Don't tell Drake. Or Todd. Or Brown."

Barbara reached over and smoothed a few of the stray tufts of Damian's bed-head. "Of course not."

Sometimes, it was easy to forget that for all his bravado and supposed 'maturity', Damian Wayne was still just a ten-year-old kid. And little kids were afraid of the dark and strange noises, even if they had been trained their whole lives to know the difference between an approaching enemy and a settling foundation. Underneath the trained assassin and 'heir to the Demon's Head' was just a small child eager to please and be loved.

Barbara thought it was really sweet, that he'd think to come to her when he was scared.

Dick met Barbara's eyes over the top of their little brother's head. Even in the dark, they twinkled. He smirked over at her, and she returned in kind.

"'Night, Lil' D," Dick said softly.

The boy grunted softly. "Silence, Grayson. Can you not see that some of us are trying to sleep?"

Both of them raised their eyebrows. Barbara bit back a laugh as she mouthed, " _Oooohhh."_

" _You heard the man,"_ Dick shot back silently. " _See you in the morning."_

"Goodnight, you two," she whispered.

This time, Damian didn't snap.

He was already asleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Mmmm…"

Barbara rolled over, swimming in the soft bunched-up sheets, and squinted at the sunlight streaming through the curtains. One fuzzy glance at the bedside alarm clock told her that it was 11:37 a.m., so she hadn't exactly gotten much of a chance to sleep in. Still, five and a half hours of rest wasn't half bad.

She threw her arm out to whack Dick on the shoulder. "Mornin', sleeping beauty."

"Nnnnnnnnn," Dick replied, burying his face in his pillow.

She smiled and pulled herself upright, rubbing her knuckles across her eyelids.

The spot in the middle of the bed was empty, and cold to the touch, so Damian had probably cleared the area a while ago. She grimaced at the thought of dealing with a sleep-deprived 'Son of Batman'.

"'ow early's 't?" Dick slurred.

"Almost noon, Wingnut." She rolled over, and laid her arms on his back. "Which means, thankfully, that the others are still a few hours away from waking u—"

The sound of screams shook the floorboards, and Barbara and Dick both bolted upright when a series of bangs followed after. They shared a long-suffering glance and a sigh, then leapt out of either side of the bed.

KNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCK

Barbara threw the door open. Stephanie stood on the other side, fist raised to pound on the door again. She was still dressed out in her pajamas; basketball shorts and a ratty gray tshirt with the words FRIES BEFORE GUYS printed on the chest. Her eyes widened, then shut as she covered a large yawn behind her hand.

"Morning, big bats," she chirped, squinting. "What's up?"

Dick and Barbara jerked as another round of profanity streamed up from downstairs. Something shattered.

"Uh, is something wrong, Steph?" Babs asked quickly.

"Mm?" She rubbed at her neck. Her eyes were lidded. "Oh. Yeah, right. I was s'posed to come get you 'cause Jason took all the coffee downstairs. Didn' tell Timmy, and now it’s like…World War Three down there. I think Dami found the cheese grater? I'd hurry."

They rushed past her, feet pounding as they dashed towards the stairs.

"Good deal," Stephanie muttered. "Now'f you'll excuse me, I'm gonna try to get a few more hours of beauty rest." She turned and waggled her fingers. "Ciao!"

Barbara and Dick burst into the kitchen. To say it was a war zone might have been an exaggeration, but the words 'disaster area' did cross Barbara's mind.

Jason was huddled behind the counter nearest them, clutching an almost-empty pot of coffee like a life preserver. His head jerked in their direction; there was a wild look in his eyes. He was wearing nothing but an oil-stained tank top and shorts, and his heavy combat boots. "Quiet!" he whispered. "He'll hear—

Tim popped out of the pantry, one eye twitching. "Jay!" he shrieked. "Where is it?"

Jason lifted a trembling finger to his lips. Dick and Babs didn't move a muscle as they looked from him, up to Tim. Unlike the rest of his siblings, he was still dressed out in almost-full uniform, minus the belts, boots, and mask. He was shaking a bit, and held a frying pan out like a ninja's katana. When he saw them, he jerked and brandished the pan in their direction.

"Tim?" Barbara put out both hands, showing him her empty palms. "We're unarmed. What's the problem?"

"The  _problem,"_ Damian snapped, "Is that Todd poured Drake's coffee down the drain after the idiot spiked it with Red Bull."

They looked up. Their youngest brother was perched up towards the ceiling on top of the kitchen cabinets. At this point, Barbara wasn't even going to question how he'd gotten up there. Or, as a matter of fact, why there was shattered glass and food stains everywhere. Alfred was going to have a cow.

"Brothers don't let brothers overdose on caffeine!" Jason growled. "Alfred'll be back with some of the regular stuff, just hold out til then, you friggin' junkie!"

Tim bellowed, and swung the frying pan at the pantry door. There was a startling crack.

"Timmy," Dick groaned, "Tell me you didn't pull another all-nighter…"

"Oh," Jason snapped, "You bet your #$$ he did. Woke up an hour ago and he was  _still_ staring at that #*&$ screen. Kid's gonna kill himself at this rate!"

The older two shared a glance.

"You go right, I'll go left," Dick muttered.

Babs nodded. "Gotcha. Watch the glass. And the pan."

They lunged.

It took them ten whole minutes to wrestle Tim to a glass-free part of the ground, and pry the coffee pot away from Jason. Hair was pulled, choice words were shouted, fists were thrown. Damian silently watched the entire thing play out from his roost, knees tucked to his chest. A smile tugged at his mouth when he watched Dick slam Tim against the wall and hold both of his arms behind his back.

"This is taking things a bit too far, don't you think, Timmy?"

Tim growled, and slammed the back of his head into his brother's nose. Dick fell back with a grunt.

Barbara danced away from Jason, navigating through the scattered patches of broken shards. She hurriedly unscrewed the coffee pot lid and dumped the whole thing right down the sink. If coffee was going to cause this much devastation,  _no one_ would be having it this morning. When Tim saw what she'd done, he groaned, and slumped to the ground.

Dick and Babs coaxed their siblings into the center of the kitchen, and seated them all on the bar stools, arms crossed.

"Alright," Babs said cheerfully. "Shall we start over? Good freaking  _morning_ to everyone! How'd we sleep?"

Jason huffed.

Damian rolled his eyes.

Tim laid his head down on the counter.

"Good deal," Dick said. "Now. Here's what we're gonna do. Alfred's going to be home anytime, and I'd really rather he not see this mess. Brooms, dustpans and cleaning rags are all in the closet down the hall. Babs and I are going to enjoy our breakfast, and when you're done, you can join us."

Barbara raised an eyebrow. "And I'd hurry, boys. We're making waffles."

Which would hopefully lure Stephanie out of bed and into the kitchen. The three boys all groaned, but Barbara replied by spinning towards the pantry. She whistled a chipper tune as she pulled out the mix and vegetable oil. Then, the eggs and a whisk.

"$#%&, they're serious," Jason muttered. He pushed out his stool, and hurried off to get the cleaning supplies. Damian and Tim reluctantly followed.

"Course we're serious." Babs smiled sweetly at Dick. "I  _never_ mess around when it comes to waffles."

By the time the boys had finished sweeping up, and worked their way to the food stains, there was a sizable stack of waffles next to the steaming iron. Every now and then, Dick would fan the tower of golden-brown goodness with one of Alfred's spatulas, and their three brothers would work a little faster.

Barbara had just drizzled a generous amount of syrup on top when her phone buzzed in her shorts pocket. She jumped a little, and reached down, pulling up the notification.

1 MESSAGE FROM  **ARTEMIS**

She raised her eyebrows at Dick. He leaned over to glance at her screen, then, with wide eyes, shoved his waffle-laden fork into his mouth without further comment.

The Justice League and the Team had been avoiding the Bats for months, now. In a way, Barbara couldn't really blame them; the harsh words thrown down at Bruce's funeral were still fresh on everyone's minds.

Still, if Artemis was willing to talk to her again…

She opened up the message.

YOU, ME, TRGT PRACTICE. ARROW CAVE AT 2. BRING BG IF YOU WANT. A MISSES HER.

A—probably for Arrowette. Barbara put down her fork and typed out a reply.

IT'S A DATE. IM NOT TRGT PRACTICE, RIGHT…? U STILL MAD ME?

A few seconds later, Artemis responded: SEE U THEN

"Right," she muttered. "This oughta be fun."

Dick shot her a quizzical glance, but his mouth was too full for questions. The boys had finished up and joined them around the counter. They devoured waffle after waffle, like the hungry savages that they usually were in the morning.

A blonde head poked out from behind the doorframe. "That what I think it is?"

Barbara waved Dick's spatula. "Guess what, Steph? Me and you, girl's day out with the Arrow-gals. In or out?"

Like a shy deer, Stephanie wandered into the kitchen, never taking her eyes off of the steaming plate of quick-'n-ready-mix deliciousness. She cocked her head.

"Mm. Food first."

"Great." Barbara glanced over at Dick. "Wish us luck, Wingnut. Now, where do we keep the ballistics armor again?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

A thwack snapped through the air, and an arrow sprouted from the mannequin's chest. Right in the center of the black spray-painted rings over the dummy's heart. Barbara noticed with a smirk that the fletching on the arrow was green.

"Nice shot," she said. "What's this, twenty in a row?"

Artemis Crock squeezed one eye shut and pulled back her string with one fluid movement of her arm. Another arrow aimed and ready to pierce through the target. "Hmm. Twenty-one."

Sure enough, the twenty-first arrow hit its mark.

Barbara pulled one of her own arrows from her hip quiver, notched it, then pulled the yellow fletching back to her cheek. It brushed against her face, and she flinched. Which, of course, meant that the arrow sailed off course and ended up squarely in a spot slightly lower than the chest.

"Ooh." Artemis grimaced. "Fella's gotta feel that one."

"And he wouldn't feel all those hits to the chest?" She slid another arrow out.

"Of course not. Those offered a quick and painless death, unlike the unmanning you just gave Henry, there."

"You named him Henry?"

The archer shrugged. "Why not? This one's Henry, that one's Frank, Bob, Joey…" She nodded down the line, all the way to the gray mannequin at the end of the room that Stephanie and Cissie were busy practicing on. "And the guy over there getting maimed by our little sisters is Piccard. Roy named him after the guy on Star Trek."

Barbara raised her eyebrows. "Must not have liked him much."

"Yeah, well, Roy's not big on TV." Artemis let fly another projectile, and this one hit Henry right in the spot where his nose would be. Over by Piccard, Stephanie let out a whoop as her purple arrow lodged right in the dummy's neck. Barbara wasn't sure whether to be amused, or worried that she and Artemis were encouraging the girls to use deadly force via bow and arrow. Bruce definitely wouldn't have approved of this kind of practice.

But then, she wasn't Bruce.

"So," Barbara said, pulling back on the string. "This is fun, and everything—"

 _Smack._ Right in the heart. There was now a spot of yellow in all that green, and she allowed herself a smirk. Artemis made an approving sound, raising one eyebrow. Barbara put her hand on her hip, and looked her old friend straight in the eye.

"But why did you really ask us here? We haven't talked since the funeral. Honestly, when we got here, I thought you were just going to shoot me and be done with it."

"Oh," Artemis said, smiling. "Is that why you guys showed up in full uniform?"

"Artemis—"

She sighed, and reached down for another arrow. Holding out her hand, she balanced the weapon on the tip of her finger, eyes tracing up and down the shaft, from the fletching to the tip.

"Alright," she said. "Truth is? I wanted to apologize."

"For…what, exactly? We were the ones who snapped at everyone. We basically drove you all out, kind of insulted you—"

"Oh yeah. You guys  _were_ pretty condescending." Artemis looked up at her. "You managed to tick off every single member of the League in one fell swoop. You should have seen Superman after we left. Even GA was pretty upset."

Barbara shifted in place. The arrows in her hip quiver jingled as they knocked together against her thigh. "Well, if Bats ever taught us one thing, it was how to stand our ground against metas."

"Well, not everyone there was a meta." She shrugged.

"Right. Sorry." Barbara paused. "Wait. You said we ticked off the  _League._ What about the Team?"

"Yeah." Artemis twirled the arrow in between her fingers, and clipped it onto the string. "Well, that's kind of what I wanted to apologize for. The younger members were a bit upset. Most of them  _are_ metas, after all. But us older people, the ones who started this Team?" She pulled the string back to her cheek, one eye closed as she aimed. "We've known you and Dick for years. We know the difference between when you guys are acting like snobbish jerks—"

"Hey!"

"—and when you're saving face. Putting on your…less visible masks."

Barbara slumped. "Oh. Right."

Bruce's funeral had been a living nightmare for each of his kids. The League had taken over the entire thing, from the planning, to the speakers, to the actual burial. The Batkids had stood by, without saying anything. What could they do, after all? The League had been Batman's team, just as much as Bruce had been their mentor. Towards the end, though, Superman had announced that they'd be retiring the Batman mantle, and taking his suit to hang in the Watchtower or Hall of Justice or somewhere as a memorial to the fallen hero. That's when Dick had put his foot down. He and Barbara gave each and every hero present a brutal piece of their minds.

"Anyway," Artemis continued, "How could we blame you guys? We were the ones that found you in that carnival house-of-horrors. We saw what the Joker did to you, to those police officers, to…Batman. I mean…" She shuddered. "He forced you to watch…what he did with those men, then painted your faces with their blood. That…that's what happened, right?"

Barbara fingered the soft fletching on one of her arrows. "If it's alright," she said curtly, "I try very hard not to think about what happened."

"Right." Artemis shook herself a little. "Right. Sorry. But like I said, we knew you guys had been through a lot, so Kaldur, M'gann, Connor, and everyone…we couldn't hold a few harsh words and dirty looks against you. Besides, we'd done enough."

"Enough?"

"We're the ones who put M'gann up to the mind reading. She looked inside all of your heads. You were the only one who noticed."

Barbara's shoulders slackened, and she almost dropped her bow. "Oh. I see."

"We didn't mean to hurt you. Any of you." The archer bit her lip. "We just wanted to see how Batman really died. We wanted to understand what happened to all of you, how one clown could capture all of you guys in one fell swoop, and we wanted to see if there was anything that would tell us where the Joker might have gone…"

"Joker isn't your responsibility," Barbara snapped. Artemis tensed at her tone, so she smiled to put her friend at ease. "What I mean is…" She sighed. "We're trying to keep this in the family. If we ever find that son of a &!^$#, then we'll take care of him. But we don't need outside help for this. It's personal now."

The archer nodded.

The girls both shouted, and Barbara could hear Cissie's laughter echo through the Arrow Cave's training room. Stephanie groaned out a few words that Alfred definitely wouldn't have approved of, and raised her bow threateningly.

Artemis smiled. "Glad to see them getting along. Reminds me of us, back when things were easier."

"Yeah. Back when you were Artemis, and I was Batgirl. Team life…no idea how good we had it, did we?"

"And that's another thing." She nodded, turning slowly back around to shoot Barbara a shy smile. "Wally and I are in the League now."

This time, Barbara did drop her bow. Her arms were around Artemis's shoulders before the archer girl could even react, and she couldn't stop the excited squeal that bubbled out of her throat.

"Congratulations! How long?"

Artemis tapped her back. "Three months. GA and Flash Senior are both… _thrilled."_

"Flash  _Senior_?"

"Two Flashes now. Barry and Wally. I think they're alternating or something…to be honest, I don't really understand everything they worked out together." She groaned. Her hand fluttered to her eyes. "I just wish the League luck in handling  _two_ Flashes."

Barbara laughed. "Poor heroes. I almost feel sorry for those high-and-mighties."

The training room door opened and shut with a bang, and all four girls whirled around. Green Arrow was sauntering down the steps, with one big grin on his face. "Well, I kinda take offense to that. Thought we had a history, you and I."

Barbara managed a smile. "Good to see you, Ollie. How's Dinah?"

He chuckled. "She's doing just fine. Due to pop in just a few weeks, and if I may add, my fingers are crossed for a boy." For emphasis, he actually held up two crossed fingers. "And how's Dina-without-an-h?"

"Last I heard, she was doing just fine." Barbara cocked a smile. "But then, it's been a  _while_ since I've heard. She's been busy running the Birds since I left."

Oliver Queen's eyes traced over her slowly, lingering on her legs. Barbara might've felt a stab of discomfort, but she was used to the scrutiny. She was a walking medical miracle—a  _literal_ one at that. Everyone in the super-community had been giving her the same looks and glances since she'd taken that first step out of her wheelchair. "Feel good to be back?" he asked her.

Barbara nodded. "More than you know."

Artemis cleared her throat, and wrapped an arm around Barbara's shoulder. "Not that the small talk isn't absolutely  _riveting,_ Ollie, but why don't you go ahead and cut to the chase?"

"What?"

Oliver cleared his throat and smiled. "Right, right. Well, Barbara, I know that you and the new Batman aren't exactly 'pro-JLA' at the moment—"

"A bit of an understatement, really." She crossed her arms over her chest and raised an eyebrow. Where exactly was he going with this?

"Yes, but…" He reached down and rifled in his uniform pocket. Carefully, he pulled out two black envelopes, and offered them to her with a smile. "Despite your hard feelings for us 'high-and-mighties', we big-wigs in the League have been talking it over, and decided to extend an olive branch."

She held the envelopes carefully. They were embossed with the League's insignia, and sealed with a wax stamp. Old-fashioned and very official-looking. Artemis beamed over at her as what Green Arrow was suggesting started to sink in.

Her eyes widened. "You mean—"

"We debated back and forth," Oliver said, scratching at his beard as he smiled. "But ultimately came to the decision that the League needs to have at least one Bat on board."

"Ollie, I don't know what to say…"

"Well…" A flicker of discomfort appeared on GA's face. "The debate was over whether or not to take either of you on at all, and once they decided to let a Bat back on the League, they decided to just allow… _one_ of you."

"What?" Artemis straightened and frowned. "That's not what you told me earlier. You said—"

He grimaced. "A few of them like the idea of you joining up, sweetheart. Especially the lady members. Others want Dick. They couldn't reach a decision, though, so they're leaving the choice up to the two of you."

Barbara's jaw tightened. This was just another case of the Justice League deciding that their powers gave them authority over everyone else, especially non-metas, and she'd had just about enough. But she forced herself to smile, and nod. "Thanks, Ollie. We'll consider the offer, and get back to the rest of you with our decision."

Artemis stared at her, but said nothing.

The girls wandered over. Stephanie held her bow across her shoulders as she sauntered towards them, and was sporting a mile-wide grin. Cissie looked a bit more defeated, but managed a smile when she saw Oliver.

"Hey, GA! How was monitor duty?"

He smiled, and clapped his youngest partner on the shoulder. "Not bad, princess. How was target practice?"

Her smile dipped a little, and Stephanie's smirk widened. The Batgirl buffed her nails on her chest and said, "She did a good job, Mr. Green Arrow sir, but sadly, she was no match for my awesome aiming skills."

Cissie looked up at Artemis and mouthed,  _I let her win._

 _I know, same here,_ Artemis replied, grinning at Barbara, who elbowed her sharply in the side.

"I can read lips, too, y'know," she muttered.

"Y'know," Stephanie said, glancing up and around the room, "I've always wondered, Mr. Green Arrow sir, but why the heck would you call this place the 'Arrow Cave' when there's a perfectly good name just lying around." She pointed a finger in the air with one raised eyebrow. "And do you know what that name is, my man? It's—wait for it—the  _Quiver!"_

She whispered the last word, fingers fluttering, and nodded her head.

Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose. Barbara watched his eyes roll up towards the ceiling. "Yes. But we call it the Arrow Cave, so—"

"But it's not really a cave," Steph mused. "It's more of like a secret bunker underneath your mansion, that you, like, dug out yourself? Now, correct me if I'm wrong here, GA, but aren't caves, like,  _naturally_ made by erosion and stuff? Not a bulldozer."

Green Arrow opened his mouth to reply, but Stephanie beat him to the punch.

"And, while we're on the subject of hidden secret bunker rooms underneath a billionaire mansion—oh, sorry, I mean  _millionaire_  mansion—I would just like to point out that the whole concept seems very familiar, almost like you got the idea from _another_ loaded genius superhero guy with a lot of extra time on his hands, right?"

Oliver pursed his lips, and his face had darkened to a shade that was awfully close to the color of Cissie's costume. His two female partners both pressed their fists to their mouths, either to keep their tempers in check, or to keep from laughing. Barbara couldn't tell, because she was too busy trying to keep her own laughter in check.

"Al-alright, Steph," she managed, biting the inside of her cheek. "Reign it in, okay? Ollie's a friend."

Batgirl nodded, absently. "Well, okay, GA. If Babs says you're alright, then I guess you're alright in my book. But seriously, dude. Arrow? Cave? Please at least tell me that one of your Roy's came up with that one."

Artemis's head jerked forward as she snickered into her fist. Cissie cracked up, and pressed both hands to her mouth to keep the noise at bay. Unfortunately, Oliver Queen was neither blind nor deaf. He closed his eyes, and said, through clenched teeth. "It's always a pleasure, Batgirl. Now if you don't mind, I've got some League business to attend to." He turned to leave, and waved his hand dismissively. "You girls have fun shooting up those mannequins. 'Specially Piccard. Oh, and Artemis, please remember to turn out the lights in the  _Arrow Cave_ when you're all done down here."

The girls all held their breath until the door clicked shut behind Green Arrow. Then, they lost it. Their giggles and snickers echoed around the room.

Artemis clapped Stephanie on the back with a happy sigh. "Ahh. Of all the Batgirls, I think you're the funniest, Steph."

"Hey!" Barbara's hand fluttered to her chest. "I'll have you know that when I was Batgirl, I was freaking  _hilarious!"_

"Sure you were, Babs," Steph said. "Sure."

"Right." Artemis smirked. "Now, fun as shooting a bunch of dummies  _is…"_ She gestured vaguely to the group of mannequin-shaped pincushions. "I think a night on the town is in order. Whaddya say, ladies?"

Cissie pounded her fist into her hand with a grin. "I'm inclined to agree, sis. Beats target practice in the Quiver, any day."

Steph smiled, and said, "Y'know, Babs? I like this girl. Even if her aim is total crap."

Cissie made a face. "Whatever. Let's just go."

Barbara tapped a few buttons on her gauntlet, and her wrist computer appeared in the air before her. She typed a few things out, and scanned the streaming info crawling across her screen, and smiled sweetly.

"Looks like we've got a robbery in progress down at Star Labs. That's, like, the only place in this city that ever gets robbed, right?"

Artemis rolled her eyes, and stepped over towards the Archer Family's uniform rack. "Ha, ha."

Cissie joined her older sister, and started strapping on her armor and weaponry. "Don't worry, Tigress, they're just jealous that Gotham doesn't have a research or scientific facility near as advanced as Star Labs."

"You're right," Steph shot back, smirking up at Barbara, "We have, like,  _six."_

Barbara shrugged, and lifted her mask off its perch on a nearby table. "Seven, actually, if you count the University's lab. But, hey? Who's counting?"

"Ah, Gothamites." Tigress turned, and slid her mask over her face. Cissie followed suit. The two Archer girls swaggered past the Bat girls towards their cycles, and waved their hands. "Coming?" Artemis asked, sweetly. "You ladies can ride on back with us, if you want."

"Thanks, 'Mis," Barbara said, cocking her head, "But we've already called our rides. Should be waiting outside."

Stephanie bounced in place, grinning. "Now," she said, "Shall we blow this popsicle stand?"

"We shall. I just hope that the boys can handle one night without us."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dick couldn't do The Voice.

The first time he'd put on the suit, and pulled up the cowl, he'd tried to. He'd forced the gravel and steel into his tone, tried at the authoritative growl. It was the voice that sent scumbags scurrying off, criminals cringing back into their shadows. The Voice was something that made Batman… _Batman._ As soon as he tried it, something seemed to warble at the back of Dick's throat, and it seemed for a moment like he could mimic Bruce's dark voice.

But that moment was over the minute Jason fell off the Cave railing from laughing too hard.

For the rest of that night, not even Barbara could look at him straight on without dissolving into fits of giggles.

So, he didn't try the Voice anymore, and settled for a deeper tone of his own. And, thankfully, no one had laughed since, not even the villains.

But the trademarked 'Bat-Grunt-of-Sheer-Frustration'? Dick had that down to a T.

"Hood," he sighed. He pressed his knuckles to his lips and closed his eyes. "Poke Robin one more time, and I won't be held responsible for the fallout."

Jason snorted, and jabbed his finger into Robin's side again. Thankfully, Damian was gritting his teeth and not responding, so Dick could be grateful that at least  _some_ of his 'patience coaching' had gotten through to the kid. Even so, everyone had a breaking point, and it was only a matter of time before the boy snapped like a dry twig.

That point seemed to be getting closer and closer with every passing second. The four former Robins had been crouched on top of the warehouse roof for a little over a half an hour, now. They'd been staking out a warehouse on the lower East end, towards the docks. Gordon had received an anonymous tip that a certain culprit the GCPD had been tracking for the last few months was going to rear his ugly head there, and soon.

But, the serial killer they were looking for had yet to show, and tensions on the roof were starting to run a bit high.

Jason cracked his helmet open, and stuck his index finger in his mouth. There was a wet pop as he pulled it out, and extended it towards Damian's ear.

For a man who had already died once, Jason Todd seemed to have a very small appreciation for living.

Tim was watching the whole thing play out silently. Fingers steepled, eyes showing a mix of vague horror and wry amusement behind the mask. Dick sighed, and slammed Jason's hand down before the Red Hood made the biggest mistake of the night. The last thing they needed on a stakeout like this was an explosion.

"Jay," Dick muttered, "Don't."

Damian turned his head, and shot Jason a very dark glance. "Thank him, Todd. He just saved your life."

"Whatever. Your loss, kid." Jason sighed and rolled over onto his back. "Wet willies are a part of growing up. You're missing out."

"Red Robin," Dick said quickly. "Let's go over the mission again."

Tim jumped a little. "Uh. Why? We all know why we're here."

"Because maybe a little reminder will keep these two distracted."

"Gotcha. Okay…" Tim pressed a button on his gauntlet, activating his wrist computer. "The cops have been working this case for the last eight months. Right after the bodies of the first two victims, Ginny Reeves and her son Alan, were found dumped at a construction site on the edge of Gotham. Both suffered severe burns and wounds, but each died different deaths."

Jason sighed deeply through his nose, pressing his hands to his forehead.

"Alan was beaten to death with a blunt instrument. Police are guessing it was a baseball bat…"

Dick shuddered a bit. When he'd been Robin, he'd had a run-in with Two Face that had almost ended the same way. For the kid's sake, he prayed he'd gone quickly.

"But Ginny," Tim continued, "Was found to have died from an opioid overdose. Detective Montoya interviewed Mrs. Reeve's friend, a lady named Heather Lundt, who said that Ginny had never even touched over-the-counter drugs. She was a pretty firm believer in natural remedies and medicine. If she or her son got sick, they saw a ‘spirit healer' on the other side of town."

Dick half expected Jason to chime in with some cutting remark, but his brother was uncharacteristically silent.

Tim's eyes glanced over the rest of the documents. "About seven weeks later, another pair of bodies was found in a different construction site. A lady and kid, just like before. But the GCPD didn't make the connection that they were dealing with a serial killer until they found the third set of victims. Same M.O. as the other two pairs, same deaths." He cleared his throat, and scrolled through quickly. "So far, they've got six sets of victims. Always a woman and small child, but not always related…Only similarities seem to be their appearance…the woman always has red hair, the boy always has dark hair."

"This is the coppers' case, isn't it?" Jason said. His hands folded behind his head. "Why is Jim Gordon bringing  _us_ in? Usually, they hate when we pick up their little pet-projects."

Dick cleared his throat. "They brought us in, because Gordon's running out of time. He suspects that the killer is going to strike again, within the next week or two."

"Besides, Hood," Damian added with a sniff, "We're ten times better than any of those half-wit detectives. We will bring this killer in tonight, something those incompetent fools have been unable or unwilling to do for months."

"The cops are doing their best, Robin," Dick muttered. "But you're right. If Gordon's tip is legit, our guy should be showing up any minute."

A few soft taps behind them made each of the boys jump. It was a sound they were used to—the subtle noise of boots hitting a rooftop—but only from each other. They whirled around, and saw a large group of men in suits and ties. They wore dark sunglasses to hide their eyes, which was a pretty stupid move to pull in the dark of night, in Dick's opinion. (He would know.)

Their leader smirked. Dick picked him out as the alpha dog instantly by the smug, confident way that he held himself.

That, and the bright red suit with gold piping. Which, in his city, was usually a dead-ringer for the ring-leader.

"I'm not so certain that your Commissioner was correct, Batman. You did receive his message via text, I'm assuming?" The newcomer pulled a mobile device from his pocket, and waved it with a raised eyebrow. "So unreliable. Almost  _anything_ can be hacked in this day and age."

All four Bats sprang to their feet, fists and staffs and batarangs at the ready.

"Well," Dick said, trying hard to lower his voice. "That was your mistake. Because we're going to—"

The red guy whipped out a small weapon, and pointed it in their direction. Before any of them could react, a deafening sound pierced their eardrums. Dick's hands clapped over his ears as he doubled over. A groan grated out of his throat, and his vision began to blur. It shouldn't have been possible; his cowl was designed to filter audio input. Anything above a certain decibel range got filtered out almost completely; he'd even tested the technology out with Black Canary herself.

"Now, if I raised the pitch slightly, I could scramble your little bat-brains," the man mused. Somehow, Dick could hear him over the growing sound of nails on a chalkboard. His muscles felt weak, and his knees hit the rooftop with a smack. Pain throbbed in his head. He felt something in his ears that he hoped wasn’t blood.

"But sadly, there are places to go, people to beat. The rest of you should count yourselves lucky that I'm in such a forgiving mood. I only need Batman."

Hands wrapped around Dick's biceps. The men in suits, most likely. He wanted to throw a punch, fight back, but his thoughts were almost completely zeroed-in on the screeching wail assaulting his ears. They dragged him to his feet, and he could feel one of them stick something onto his forehead.

He moaned. "What…?"

The man in red sneered, and turned a dial on the weapon. Dick screamed, eyes rolling back as the pain in his head blanked out everything else. His brothers collapsed around him, completely out of commission, and the guards kicked them aside as they dragged Dick over to the leader.

He smiled, and Dick's vision went totally dark.

 


	3. Fight Club Part 1

 

Barbara cracked her eyes open slightly.

Her temples ached, like someone had taken a screwdriver to either side and started twisting and twisting and twisting. She winced and let out a moan as she reached up to rub away the pain. A sharp intake of breath on her right made her jump fifty feet.

"Babs!" Artemis gasped. "Oh, thank—"

She smacked Barbara's shoulder so hard that the Batwoman cried out. "Ah! What the #$%%, Tigress?"

Barbara tried to sit up, but half her body felt numb. Artemis stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder, and Barbara had to squint to make out the blonde's masked face in the darkness. Her friend's hard expression was made scarier by the snarling tiger mask.

"Don't scare me like that again," Artemis said, glowering. "What was I supposed to think? You were so cold and stiff, and when they said that there'd been a malfunction—"

"Mal—? Wait. Where are we?"

They seemed to be in a small, dark room. It was more like a closet, with a cement flooring and walls. The only light came out of a small window—a slit, really—in a tall metal door to their left. If Babs had to wager a guess by the hanging fluorescent lights outside their cell, and the industrial building material around them—like the creaking pipes overhead—she would bet that they were being held underground somewhere.

Which wasn't good, if they wanted to escape quickly.

"Okay," she said softly. "Let me rephrase.  _How_ are we here?"

Artemis pulled her upright slightly, and leaned her back against the cold concrete wall. Barbara's thoughts were flying in a million different directions, but Artemis brought her back as she spoke.

"Uh, remember? We just beat up Clock King, had him all tied up for the cops, then that Sonar guy showed up. The one with the red tin-soldier looking suit? He blasted us with his noise-gun, and now…"

She glanced up at the slit in the door warily. "Well, that's pretty much it. Woke up, and you were out cold. I thought…"

The memories were starting to cycle back slowly, but with them came a sudden, terrible realization. Barbara's hand shot up, and she gripped Artemis's wrist tightly. "Where are the girls?"

Artemis drew back. Her eyes were wide behind the mask, and she reached up to remove it with her shaking free hand. "I-I don't know, Babs. I don't know where we are, or where—"

The bang on the door made them both jump. Two eyes appeared in the window, squinting at the two women in the darkness. Whoever they belonged to let out a satisfied hum.

"There. Didn't I tell you?" he said, to someone they couldn't see, "The paralysis wasn't permanent, and she seems to have woken up just fine."

"Idiot." It was a woman that snarled this time, but her voice was grainy and distant. Barbara guessed that the second voice was coming out of a radio or handheld. "Bring her up. I want to see for myself."

The eyes narrowed. Tigress and Batwoman shied backwards, and clenched their fists.

"What about the orange one?"

"Have the men prep her. Just bring the malfunction with you."

The man on the other side of the door disappeared from their view. Barbara could hear a series of soft beeps, which meant a key pad. That wasn't good; she had picks, but without her belt, there was no way she could hack into a system that complex from behind a cell door.

She looked up at Artemis, jaw set. "I'll be back to get you, alright? Just sit tight until I make my move. Then—"

"Oh," the man said, as the door flew open, "No 'then's. Just 'nows'."

It was the man from before. He wore a bright scarlet uniform with gold embellishments, and a blue cape tossed over his shoulder. Artemis had totally hit the nail on the head when she'd used the words 'tin-soldier' but similarities to the vintage children's toy ended there. He was as beefy as a pro wrestler, and had the black slicked hair and all the eyeliner necessary for a full emo-look. Barbara recognized him as Sonar. She and her Birds of Prey had crossed paths with him once or twice before.

"And right now," Sonar continued, "You'll be coming with me, Batgirl."

Barbara scowled. "Bat.  _Woman."_

"Whatever. Get up."

He snagged her arm, jerking her upright. She smiled, and yanked down hard. He clearly hadn't expected resistance, and crumpled forward. Barbara cracked her forehead against his face, and he fell backwards with a squeal. The plating in her mask could take the blow—she and Tim had designed it specially—but Sonar wasn't so lucky. Blood spurted from his nose like a waterfall.

She grabbed Artemis's hand. "C'mon!"

They dashed out the door. Their boots slapped against cement as they sprinted down a hallway full of similar metal doors, some open, others forebodingly closed. Eyes occasionally popped up behind them, watching, but the two women kept running.

At least, until a voice cried out. "Artemis?"

Tigress screeched to a halt, gaping at a door on their right. Two wide green eyes were staring out at them from behind the slit as fingers tentatively curled up around the edge. Artemis stepped forward, eyes wide. "W-Wally?"

"What are you doing in here?" he demanded. "Where are we?"

Barbara reached out to grasp her friend's wrist. "Artemis, we have to  _go."_

Tigress whirled on her. "I'm not leaving him!"

"Artemis— _ah!"_

Batwoman hit the floor, hands clapped to her ears. The worst sound, like a thousand nails on a chalkboard, filled her ears. She could see through narrowed eyes that Artemis was convulsing on the ground next to her, and Barbara glared up at Sonar. He'd clapped one hand to his nose to stem the flow of blood, but the other held a petit little weapon of mass destruction. His sonar gun.

Two men in black suits and ties rushed up behind him, and he turned his head, barking out orders. "Take the Tigress back to her cell. Prep her for the fight. Have her ready in time. And you…" He turned his murderous gaze on Barbara. "You're coming with  _me."_

He yanked her upright, and she was too shaken to protest as he clapped a pair of metal cuffs over her wrists, led her through a series of hallways, and into an elevator. Once the doors dinged open, she was shoved forward into a large, richly carpeted room.

There was almost no furniture, aside from a few computer screens laid out on their backs up ahead. The opposite wall was completely windowed, and Barbara could see out into a massive amphitheater on the other side, teeming with shuffling people and bright lights. The crowd carried champagne glasses and clutch purses, and she could see, with growing horror, that each and every one of them wore masks or uniforms. They were all metas, but definitely not Leaguers.

Villains, Rogues and Evil-doers. Every single one.

Silhouetted against the scene was a trim figure. She—Barbara could tell instantly that it was a 'she'—typed casually at her screens. Well-manicured nails clicked against them as she let out the occasional satisfied hum.

Sonar cleared his throat, and she turned.

"Ah," she said, smiling. "Our Sleeping Beauty wakes at last."

The woman stepped toward them, and Barbara got a better look at her enemy. She wore a long, clinging, blood-red dress. It left just enough uncovered that she could catch a glimpse of the winding poisonously green snake tattooed on the woman's pale skin. Silver chopsticks in her jet hair and matching earrings completed the picture, and Barbara knew the woman immediately.

"Roulette." Barbara's eyes narrowed. "I would ask, but I think I already know what you want."

"Clever girl," Roulette crooned. "And so familiar, too." She snapped her fingers. "I know! You were that whiny little Oracle, weren't you? I recognize your voice. You and your little band of feminists almost put me out of business when you destroyed my arena."

"That was the plan," she admitted. "So please. Enlighten me as to why I'm here. In a very much bigger version of your little gambling den?

The woman tipped back her head, and let out a rich bout of laughter. Her earrings swayed and tinkled brightly. "Oh, darling, the market giveth, and the market destroyeth. But this time, I came out on the side of luck. I found a very generous donor. He paid for this whole shebang!" She swung a hand out at the scene on the other side of the glass, beaming. "Now I'm back in business, and raking in more cash than I'd ever thought possible! And all my benefactor asks is that I test out some new tech on my fighters, but I have no qualms. It makes them much more…exciting. Cooperative."

Barbara glowered. "And I'm guessing your mysterious benefactor walks on all fours and has a penchant for bananas?"

Roulette smirked, and shook her head. She sauntered forward, until she stood just inches away. "Oh, it isn't Grodd, not this time. Though my donor  _did_ gain his inspiration from that monkey's tech. Good guess, though. Mind control! Who would have thought it could be used to make millions?"

Mind control.  _Wonderful._

Last time she'd sent Dina and Helena to deal with this witch, they hadn't had to worry about things like this. Roulette had owned nothing more than a small warehouse with a ring in the center. It was a popular Light-sanctioned pastime, for villains to gather and watch each other get beaten to a pulp. As if getting beat on by the heroes on a bi-weekly basis wasn't enough already. Roulette usually made her money by getting her patrons to bet on one contender or the other. She came out rolling in cash, and at the same time, the Light was bankrolled by its own members.

"And what do the baddies in there think of having you pulling their strings, Roulette? I can't think of a single villain who'd let you tamper with their heads."

Roulette raised an eyebrow. 'Oh, my dear. Who said a thing about villains?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Batcave was completely silent, and no one made any effort to change that.

Jason had perched himself on the Batcomputer desk, and was cradling his head in his hands. Tim lay prone on the ground nearby. He'd buried his head in his crossed arms. A few feet away, Damian was clutching at Titus's fur, face buried in the scruff of the hound's neck.

They'd held these positions ever since they'd limped back to the Cave hours ago. Even now, their heads were still splitting, and they were no closer to finding Dick.

"#*%$^#!$% little $%#*&!$," Jason snarled through gritted teeth. "When I get my hands on that—"

"Please." Tim's voice was muffled and pained. "Don't speak."

The elevator doors swung open, and Alfred stepped into the cave, holding aloft a tray of pills. "Right then," he said cheerfully. "As requested, I've brought you all the finest painkillers I could find. Now, if you'll cease your moaning and groaning, kindly step this way and partake, boys."

They halfheartedly peeled themselves up from their resting places, and swallowed down the medication. Every movement sent another shock of pain coursing through their heads, but they grit their teeth and waited for the pills to kick in.

Tim was the first to initiate conversation. Through the years, Bruce had insisted that they all learn foreign languages, but had emphasized American Sign Language, mostly because of the many benefits of silent communication. His hands waved as he signed,

" _First thing we need to do is find out where that man took Dick. Agreed?_

Jason and Damian scowled, bobbing their fists in the affirmative.

" _I can try to get a read on his tracking chip—"_

Jason shook his head, wincing from the movement, and waved his hands.  _"Took his chip out months ago."_

" _And how do you know that, Todd?"_ Damian scowled.

The Red Hood shrugged sheepishly.  _"No reason. But we're going to have to figure out another way to find—"_

All three boys grabbed their heads and grimaced as the whirring of a cycle filled the cave. A black and purple blur screeched over towards the other parked vehicles and came to a halt. Batgirl dismounted, and pulled off her bike helmet with a groan.

Her blonde hair stood straight up in a bushy halo around her head; she and Babs were always complaining about static and helmet hair. None of the boys ever really had that problem, though, and the head gear provided more than enough protection as they were, so the padding-lined helmets stayed. Steph tossed hers to the side, and marched over to the boys.

"WHICHEVER ONE OF YOU #$!%*$& IDIOTS TOOK THE SOUND PROTECTION OFF MY COWL IS GOING TO DIE!" Stephanie shouted.

The boys dug their fingers into their ears, wincing away from the sound. Batgirl wasn't satisfied by this response.

"WELL? WHO WAS IT? I'LL BET IT WAS YOU, DAMIAN, WASN'T IT? I KNOW IT WAS! WHEN I GET MY HANDS—"

"Steph!" Tim barked, baring his teeth. His jaw was clenched tightly. "Lower your voice. We didn't do anything to your cowl."

She cocked her head. "WHAT?"

"He  _said,_ 'we didn't do anything to your cowl!" Jason shouted.

"WHAT?"

Damian's scowl deepened, and he signed the phrase to her himself. She watched his hands, then sighed, replying.

" _Alright, then whoever that guy was had some serious sound tech."_

Tim raised an eyebrow.  _"Buff guy, red suit, blue cape? Sound weapon?"_

Stephanie bobbed her fist.  _"Yep. Blasted me and Cissie, then took Babs and Artemis. But I don't know where, cause Babs took out her tracking chip after the carnival fiasco."_

Jason snapped his fingers as his face lit up. He turned and stepped over towards the computer, typing furiously. The others exchanged a look of shocked confusion, then followed him.

A map of Bludhaven spread out across the screen. Grid patterns of streets, buildings and parks. And one glowing red dot. Jason took his fingers off the keyboard, and signed,  _"Babs' neural implant has a signal that we can pinpoint. It’s on a different frequency than our chips, which makes it a little harder to find, but—"_ He waved a hand at the screen,  _"Not impossible. And I'm willing to bet cash that wherever sound guy took her, Dick's definitely there, too."_

Three sets of eyes gazed at him in shock.

Jason reared back.  _"What? You know, I can be smart too, guys."_

" _Right, right,"_ Tim signed.  _"But the signal's coming from a huge underground structure, and there's no way to tell just how many baddies we could be dealing with to get to them."_ He smirked. " _Unless, of course, we tap into the Bat-satellite, and do this…"_

He started typing, and Stephanie let out a deep sigh.  _"Batmobile, Batcave, Batarangs, Bat-satellite…real creative. I wonder where Bruce ever could have gotten the ideas for all the—"_

" _Alright. Got it."_

Heat signatures lit up the area surrounding Barbara's dot like a blazing fire. There had to be hundreds. They gaped at the screen.

" _Awesome."_ Jason sighed.  _"Just…just awesome."_

" _The four of us aren't strong enough to fight that many opponents,"_ Damian mused,  _"Even my own skill may not prove sufficient."_

" _The kid's right. We're going to need backup."_

" _The League? Team? The Titans?"_

" _No. Anyone but them."_ Jason made a face.  _"Last thing we need's metas. Especially on this."_

" _Well, who else is there?"_

Stephanie threw up a hand. A slow grin stretched up her face, and she signed.  _"Oh, I think I know just the people. If you boys will excuse me, I need to make a call."_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Roulette grasped her arm and dragged her over to the window. Barbara could see the entire amphitheater, and instantly picked out a dozen baddies on sight. Scarecrow. Cheetah. Toy Man. Ultra-Humanite. Even Lex Luthor. Almost too many to count.

And, down below and dead center, there was a plexiglass dome and a scoreboard. The board glowed in the darkness, one side red, the other yellow. They showed the stats on bets for the two fighters grappling in the ring below. When she saw the contenders, Barbara's jaw dropped.

Kaldur'Ahm's mouth was stretched open in a fierce battle cry as he swung a hydro-sword at his opponent's head. Shayera soared to safety, and raised her mace with a bellow. The crowd roared and pumped their fists as the numbers on the board flickered and shifted back and forth. It seemed as though Kaldur was the favored choice.

Aqualad and Hawkgirl fighting for the amusement of the entire super-villain community. The thought made Barbara's stomach churn.

She tried to pull away, but Roulette's grip was fierce. So she stayed in place, and watched Kaldur form a hammer from his hydro-sword, then slam it into Shayera's skull. Hawkgirl let out a sharp, abrupt cry, and crumpled to the floor of the ring, arms and wings splayed. The crowd leapt to its feet, and screamed out its approval. The winning and losing bets flashed on the scoreboard, and Roulette let out a satisfied hum.

"Another million-dollar fight," she crooned. "Not bad, eh?"

There was a small pool of blood growing under Hawkgirl's head. Barbara's eyes narrowed. "I don't care how or when," she snarled, "But you will pay for this, Roulette."

The villainess shrugged, then seemed to notice the blood. "Oh, that? Don't you fret, darling. Hawkgirl's vitals are still going strong, and I have some of the world's best doctors in my employ. She'll make a full recovery."

"Right," Barbara spat, "Can't risk damaging the goods. Not permanently, at least."

Roulette let out another tinkle of laughter. "I'm so glad you see it my way, darling!"

Barbara watched silently as a panel of the ring's floor descended beneath Kaldur. He'd gone rigid, arms hanging limply at his sides as he stared blankly into the distance. When he'd disappeared from view, the same thing happened beneath Shayera. Clean, efficient. Like a factory taking in fresh victims and spitting out wads of cold hard cash. Barbara's fists clenched.

"The League won't stand for this."

"Oh, my dear," Roulette shot back, "Those meta-humans don't even know they're here. The special little chips I've had installed in their inner ears—courtesy of Grodd, I will admit, though that ape doesn't know it—makes them compliant, and completely erases any memory of what happens down here. First rule of fight club, and all…" She tapped her ear with a smirk. "I've been running this racket for months. One press of a button, and they come or go at my beck and call, never the wiser!"

Barbara grit her teeth.

"Of course," Roulette continued, turning to look her in the eye. "For whatever reason, it didn't work with you. The tech buzzed out as soon as we got it in. Your vitals crashed, and we got absolutely no response from your nervous system from the waist down. Would you care to explain why that would be?"

Her brow furrowed as her thoughts swirled. Then, it hit her. The neural implant, the chip embedded at the base of her skull that had given her back the use of her legs. It was new tech, the kind that gave off a signal. And, maybe, that signal had jammed whatever frequency Roulette's little mind-control chip operated on. She resisted a smug smile.

How many more times would that little implant save her?

"You know," she said, "I honestly can't say. Maybe your tech just isn't as good as you thought."

The villainess's face reddened, and she opened her mouth as if to shout. But, just as quickly, it snapped shut. A look of malevolent confidence spread over her face as she said, "Now, that's a shame. I was truly hoping that I could make good use of you, my dear. Bats do have a reputation, though I'll admit…" She gave Barbara's suit a once-over with a disgusted sneer. "I've never even heard of  _Batwoman_ before. Still. Even if I can't pull your strings, I suppose we can make  _some_ money off your death. An accident in the ring, a bad landing on your neck, a good hard hit to the skull…" Roulette's smile was venomous. "Anything can happen in my arena."

"I appreciate the offer," Barbara said. Her lips curled to match her captor's sneer. "But I'm not in the mood to play your games.

Roulette hummed. "Oh, we'll see, pet." Her hand shot upwards, and snatched Barbara's jaw. She could feel the woman's cold fingers pressing into her skin, and the sharp twinge as her fingernails dug into her chin. "You'll play. I can see it in your eyes. You're just  _itching_ for blood,  _yearning_ for that rush. And besides—" She smirked. "You will play, because if you don't, I'll put two fighters in the ring for a match to the death, and I'll make you watch. And I know just the contenders, too…we've got a savage Amazonian girl down in the stockades. She's supposed to be Wonder Woman's little sister, but I'll tell you—she's a brutal one. As for the other…how about your little blonde Batgirl? Now I know I deal in wagers for a living, but this one's easy. Who do  _you_ think would come out on top?"

It felt like an ice-cold fist had closed over Barbara's chest. There was her confirmation that Stephanie was in the villainess's custody. Her breath caught in her throat. Roulette took notice, and her grin only widened.

"I thought so," she said smugly, "So I'll tell you what. I'm a betting woman, so I'll offer you a wager."

Stephanie was good. But up against a rabid Amazon? And without her gear? Barbara didn't like those odds at all.

She wet her lips. "I'm listening."

"Oh, I know you are." Roulette's grip on her jaw tightened. "Three fights. You survive—and win—three fights against opponents of my choice. If you do, you get to walk away. But if I win…well, honey, you'll be too dead to care. Do you accept my terms?"

Barbara nodded, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. "When do I start?"

"Oh," the woman crooned, "Now, actually."

With her free hand, she reached over to a drawer in her computer hub, and pulled out a shiny metal tube: lipstick. Her grip on Barbara's jaw was incredibly tight as she raised the cosmetic to Batwoman's face, and spread it carefully over her lips. The lipstick was jet black, and smelled like iron. The tang reminded her a little of the scent of blood. Barbara winced sharply when Roulette was finished, and jerked away.

"Lady," she snapped, " _Boundaries."_

“You’ve got flair, kiddo. I’ll give you that.” Roulette smirked, and released her hold on Barbara. “But your look just doesn’t scream _killer._ Not yet, at least.” As she put the lipstick away, she smiled at her henchman, Sonar. He'd been standing silently in the corner, watching carefully the entire time.

"Bito, darling. Please take Batwoman down to the bullpen, and make sure she and the other contender are ready for her first fight."

The man nodded, and moved to grab Batwoman's arm.

Barbara snorted. "Oh. Oh,  _wow."_

Sonar scowled. "What is it?"

"Nothing, nothing, just…" She couldn't help the scoff that burst out of her throat. "Your name's really… _Bito?"_

He scowled, and slapped her upside the head. "Come with me, girl."

Sonar led her towards the elevator, pulling sharply. She smirked. "Oh, whatever you say,  _Bito."_

Barbara stared down Roulette as they stepped into the compartment, and couldn't help the smirk that lifted a corner of her lips. Something like doubt flickered across the villainess's face for a fraction of a second, and that was all that Batwoman needed, and her grin widened.

She cracked her neck and sighed. "Bring it on, &!^$#."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bito (Barbara wasn't going to call him anything else now) took her down below the arena. Back when she'd still been at Gotham Academy, her history teacher had showed her class a diagram of the Roman Coliseum. It was an impressive structure on the surface, but down below—behind the scenes—was where all the action had really been.

The same seemed to hold true for Roulette's little fight club. There were people rushing back and forth, toting everything from makeup brushes to bandages. One woman hurried past, struggling under the weight of a heavy iron mace. Barbara could spot a few of her colleagues being shuffled by in cuffs. One of them blinked hard, squinting in the dark.

Barbara perked up, and pulled herself out of Bito's grasp. "Aqualad!"

Kaldur blinked again, and glanced her way through narrowed eyes. "I don't…what is…hello?"

"Aqualad!"

Bito's slap left her head spinning. He grabbed her arm, and pulled her onward toward the set of illuminated rectangular capsules reaching up towards the ceiling. She had a sneaking suspicion that those led up to the arena floor above their heads. Where she'd be fighting for Stephanie's life.

_The things I do for these kids._

Bito had probably grabbed her little sister the same time he'd grabbed her. Right now, she was probably cowering in one of those dark cells—if she was even conscious at all. The thought made Barbara's blood boil. Roulette was definitely going to regret laying a hand on Batgirl. Batwoman would make sure of it.

"So… _Bito,"_ she said, trying not to trip over her own feet. Bito was pulling her along a little too quickly. "Who am I fighting first?"

His jaw clenched. "You'll see. Now, do me a favor and shut your mouth."

"Ooh. Tell you what, I think I will. But first, I want to see Batgirl."

"No."

"Um,  _yes._ Or no deal. I can't—"

A woman popped up in front of Barbara with a mile-wide grin. It was a bit creepy-looking to be honest. Before she could react, the woman assaulted her with a powder puff, dabbing and poking at her face. Barbara gasped, then sneezed, and Bito waved the woman aside. "Yes, yes, thank you. I think she's sufficiently camera-ready."

The makeup lady bowed, and hurried off to find her next victim.

Barbara whirled on the man. "I get to see Batgirl.  _Now."_

Bito smirked, and seized her arm. "I'm afraid that won't be possible. You're due for a match.  _Now."_

He flung her into the capsule. She staggered, and fell into the corner, cuffed hands unable to do anything more than keep her from faceplanting. Her gloves squeaked against the glass as she slid down to her knees, and she levelled a glare at Bito.

"After I win," she snarled, "I'm going to bash your face in next."

He shook his head, and pressed a button on the capsule's exterior. The see-through door slid shut, trapping her inside the glass jar. "Yes," he sighed, "I'm quaking in my boots."

With the press of another button, the floor started to rise. Barbara banged her fists against the glass. "Yeah? Well your boots are tacky."

"I've heard worse. It was nice knowing you."

Her stomach dropped as the platform rose faster and higher. She forced herself to her feet, and squared her shoulders. Already, Barbara could hear the sound of the crowd up above, and see the bright lights of the arena as the platform lifted her up, up, up into the ring.

And then, she reached open air.

The ring was bigger than she'd expected, and the floor was more stained than she'd seen from above. The rust colored spots told her all she needed to know about how many fights had been orchestrated right here in this ring, and her fists clenched. She did notice, though, that she couldn't see out into the spectator stands. The plexiglass was cloudy, and even the sound seemed muffled.

At least until her hostess's announcement.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Roulette's voice boomed over an invisible loudspeaker, and Barbara could almost feel the crowd perk up to listen. "Have I got a special treat for you tonight! This evening's special guest has come all the way from Gotham City, home of the bruising Bats! She's new to the scene, and twice as mean! You may remember her as Batgirl, folks, but this girl got herself an upgrade! Give it up for the one—the only—"

Roulette paused. Probably for effect. It was all Barbara could do to keep from rolling her eyes.

Then, the fogginess on the glass cleared away, drifting down like smoke. She could see it all now, the spectators, the lights, and most especially Roulette's little control box. The villainess was shooting her a smug smile from behind her computer screens.

" _Batwoman!"_

From the roar of the crowd, Barbara realized they hadn't been able to see her before. But now they could, and the sensation of so many leering eyes was beginning to make her skin crawl. She squared her shoulders and set her jaw. #$%% if she would let them see her sweat.

"And our next contender is another newcomer. But this gal's no stranger! She's fiercer, she's faster, and ladies and gentlemen, she's the daughter of our own Sportsmaster! Give it up for our feline fighter—"

"Oh, great," Barbara muttered.

The panel opposite hers rose up. Sure enough, uncuffed and already twitching in anticipation was—

" _Tigress!"_

Barbara could  _see_ Sportsmaster in the screaming crowd. He was sitting back in his seat, arms crossed smugly over his chest. It was impossible to tell at this distance, but she was almost certain that he was smirking behind that hockey mask. How Artemis ever deserved a father like that…

She turned her attention to the opponent at hand. Artemis's eyes were bloodshot and wide, and her muscles were shaking, as if she couldn't wait to spring forward and rip Batwoman's throat out with her own teeth.

_Oh, Tigger,_ Barbara thought with a frown,  _What the #$%% did they do to you?_

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Roulette said, almost purring with satisfaction, "Place your bets!"

Barbara's eyes went to the scoreboard hanging above Roulette's control center. It was smaller than the one above the ring, but she could still make out the climbing numbers. Tigress appeared to be the favored one in this competition, but her own monetary value didn't seem to be that far behind. Above the numbers, the odds blinked in red: 3/5.

The crowd seemed to think she only had three chances in five to beat Artemis.

Well. Bring it, then.

Her cuffs beeped, and their little red light turned green. With a hiss, they unclasped, and clattered to the ring floor. Barbara rubbed her wrists with a grimace, then shook them out. The crowd seemed to be shouting something, but she couldn't exactly tell what it—

" _Three! Two! One!"_ The spectators bellowed.

_Crap._

"Fight!" Roulette sang.

Artemis shot at her, fingers curled like claws. Her mouth was open in a snarl.

Batwoman swung aside, and missed having her face ripped off by a mere two inches. But Tigress wasn't about to give up that easily. She whirled back around, eyes alight, and swung her fists. Barbara could hear her ragged breathing, and threw up her gauntlets to deflect the blows. Thank goodness Roulette had left her the suit.

Now if only she had her belt.

Tigress clipped her with an uppercut. Not too hard—but enough to make her head spin. She cried out, and the crowd roared in approval.

"Tigger," Barbara panted. She dropped down to dodge her friend's left hook, and tried to hook Tigress's knees with her leg. Unfortunately, Artemis had a solid foundation, and the kick only sent her staggering back a half-step. "'Mis, I know you can hear me."

Artemis growled, and dove forward. Her arm was wrapped around Barbara's neck in a chokehold before Batwoman even had the chance to blink. She gurgled underneath Tigress's tight grip, but she almost rolled her eyes.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Roulette announced, "It seems like this fight's all wrapped up!"

As Tigress snarled in her ear, Barbara sighed. "I don't know if Roulette's controlling you like a puppet," she rasped, "Or if you're just  _that_ stupid."

Batwoman jumped up a little, and slammed the back of her head into Tigress's nose. Artemis let out a gasp, and relinquished her hold. Barbara dove out of her way, and whirled back around, fists at the ready. "How many times have I told you that you've got to secure the head, not just the neck?" She tipped her chin up and glared at Roulette, who was gaping behind her control hub. "If you're going to put yourself behind the wheel, you might want to start learning how to drive!"

Roulette wet her lips, and regained her composure. "Y-yes. Well, folks, it looks like this match is just getting started!"

Tigress launched herself forward, and caught Batwoman around the waist. Both women went down in a heap, rolling and snarling. Artemis bit her, Barbara landed a hit to her jaw. Teeth snapped, eyes rolled, nails scraped. Tigress finally got Batwoman on her back, and pressed her knees into Barbara's forearms, effectively pinning her to the floor. Her friend wrapped her fingers around Batwoman's throat, and panted as she squeezed. Barbara gasped for breath, gagging from the pressure.

_Alright,_ she thought.  _I've played nice. But I'm done._

"Fight her, not  _me,_ &*#% it!" She swung her legs up sharply, arching her back. Her ankles crossed across Artemis's neck, and she pulled back down sharply.

There was a time, before the accident that took her legs, that that move would have laid Tigress out flat. But instead of falling back and hitting the floor, Artemis was only slightly put off. Tigress rolled to the side, and brought her hand back down hard. It hit Barbara's neck, and slammed her back down onto the ground. The hard floor banged against the back of her head, and Artemis dragged her up, then slammed her back. Up, down, up, down. Batwoman saw stars, and wrapped her fingers around Artemis's hand.

"'Mis," she gasped.

"And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a defeat!"

Barbara glared up at her captor, and shouted (as much as she could manage), "I haven't tapped out! And I'm not done yet!"

The crowd was watching, waiting. Roulette's mouth pinched, but she waved her hand with an indignant eye-roll. Even she couldn't break the rules of her fights: the match wasn't over until someone tapped out. Or else, was too bloodied to get back up. Tigress had paused, holding Batwoman's head an inch above the floor.

Barbara looked up into her friend's eyes, and wet her lips, lowering her voice. "'Mis. Listen to me." She panted, and scraped at Artemis's gloved fingers, even though she knew they weren't going anywhere. "I'm your friend. I was a bridesmaid at your wedding, for crying out loud! If you're not gonna fight her for me, then fight her for Wally. You've got to get out of here for _Wally."_

Artemis cocked her head.

But if Barbara had been expecting her friend's eyes to clear, or for the snarl to magically melt off her face…well, the next series of head-slams was enough to shake her of that little fantasy. What had she honestly thought was going to happen anyway? Give a little speech, and snap Tigress out of it?

Barbara would have kicked her own #$$, if Artemis hadn't already been doing that for her.

"Fine…then…leave… _oof!..._ no choice…"

Barbara rubbed her thumb against her fingers. Faster, then faster. A dry whishing sound reached her ears, soon replaced by a soft buzzing hum. "Didn't…wanna do this…"

Artemis ignored her and placed a hand on Barbara's forehead. One quick jerk, and Tigress would snap her neck. Which, she decided, would be quite unpleasant.

"And Tigress goes for the kill! Ladies and gentlemen, blood is about to be spilled on the floor tonight! Get ready for the—"

Batwoman's hand shot up, seizing Tigress's jaw. Instantly, Artemis gasped, convulsing violently as bolts of energy crackled through the air. She fell back, and Barbara held her hand to her friend's face as long as she dared. The electricity from her gauntlet flowed through every muscle in Artemis's body, and pretty soon, she stopped shaking. Her head fell limp as she rolled to the ground, completely unconscious.

Batwoman took a shaky breath, and pulled herself upright. She squared her shoulders and pumped her fist in the air, unsmiling.

The spectators cheered. She was a bit surprised that they'd cheer for her—Tigress had been the favorite, not Batwoman—but maybe they just wanted to see violence tonight, and didn't care who dished it out and who took it.

_Wonderful._

"Well, it looks like we have a winner! Give it up for Batwoman, folks!" Roulette smiled shark-like down at Barbara, and gave her a little wave. "After a brief intermission, she'll be returning to the ring for another fight! I hope your wallets are as deep as your bloodlust tonight, everyone, because the  _night_ is  _young!"_

The crowd roared as the fog started to creep up the edges of the glass dome. Once they were hidden from view, Barbara fell to her knees at Artemis's side. She shook her friend, trying to elicit some kind of response. But the archer girl stayed still.

"Hey," she said, "I'm really sorry about that. But I promise I'll get us out of here. We just need to—"

The platform started to lower underneath them, and Barbara jumped back off the panel. There was no way she was going back down there; not until all of this was finished at least. She hated to leave Tigress, but if what Roulette had said was true, and they had been doing this for a while, then she could be somewhat sure that Artemis would be taken care of.

So, she paced there for what seemed like hours (but what her mask's digital clock told her was actually about fifteen minutes). Waiting for things to get started again was mind-numbingly frustrating. Adrenaline was still coursing through her limbs from the last fight, making her shake a bit.

Many people seemed to think that adrenaline gave you an edge in a fight, but it was almost laughably untrue. When the fight-or-flight response is triggered, all the blood rushes to the extremities, making  _flight_ the more viable option. So, in a fight, adrenaline makes for more shaky and sloppy movement. Barbara and her siblings had worked for years to train that response out of their systems, so that they could strike with precision and without hesitation.

But it had been  _years_ since Barbara had fought like this. The muscles in her legs were aching painfully, and she grimaced, reaching down to massage them with her trembling knuckles. Every nerve in her body was singing, as the animal in her begged to flee the scene. But she grit her teeth, and stood her ground.

_Alright,_ she thought. Her mind swirled as she took stock of the aches and pains, and mentally relived her fight with Tigress.  _Muscle memory…that's all gone. Leg-work needs more time, but I can manage for now…Upper body strength's probably the best it's ever been, so I need to use that…haha thanks wheelchair…Remember to watch those kicks…_

She could almost imagine Bruce beside her, critiquing every move she'd made, every punch she'd thrown with that same, constant bat-frown. If he were here, he'd be walking around her, adjusting her stance and her positioning with his hands, the way he always used to do during training. Posing her like a mannequin, then giving the command to  _fight._ He'd say, 'Good. Maintain your center, guard your vitals. Now,  _strike.'_

_Fine, then, boss-man. How do I relearn years of technique in the next five minutes?_

But as the fog on the dome lowered again, Barbara realized that she didn't have that kind of time.

"Aaaaand we're  _back,_ ladies and gentlemen! For round two!" Roulette gripped the microphone in her lacquered fingers, and shot her a venomous smile. "In corner one, the she-Bat who showed us more bite than bark… _Batwoman!"_

Barbara chewed the inside of her cheek, rolling her eyes. Her hand fluttered up, and she flashed one choice finger in the air. The crowd let out a collective laugh, and Roulette's face reddened.

"Eh-excuse me." She pursed her lips, then sighed. "Our newcomer this round is a familiar face. You've seen her dominate, you've seen her eliminate…ladies and gentlemen, give it up for the Belle of the Brawl, the one, the only…"

The panel opposite Barbara rose slowly. The blonde bob was the first thing she saw, and she couldn't help the smile that lifted the corners of her painted lips.

" _Powergirl!"_

Karin's eyes were bloodshot, just like Artemis's had been. Barbara couldn't help but notice the rippling Kryptonian muscles and the murderous look her opponent was shooting her. If only she had her belt…and the Kryptonite in pouch six on the left side…

Well. She cracked her knuckles, and tipped back her head with a laugh.

The audience fell silent, confused by her reaction. The bug was supposed to cower at the prospect of getting squashed, after all. But Barbara couldn't help the laughter bubbling out of her throat.

" _This_ is who you put me up against, Roulette?" she called. "Okay! But you have no  _idea_ how much I'm going to enjoy this."

The spectators had recovered, and were counting down from ten. Barbara never broke eye contact as she grinned up at her captor. With the flick of her wrist, she palmed an emergency smoke pellet. (She wasn't entirely helpless without her belt. If Roulette had wanted her that way, she should have taken Barbara's entire suit.)

But Roulette grit her teeth, and pressed the microphone to her lips.  _"Fight!"_

Karen flew forward with the force of a hurricane.

Barbara smiled.

 


	4. Fight Club Part 2

 

The fight was over in five minutes flat.

Silence was the loudest sound in the room, besides Barbara's panting. She shook out her shoulders, and planted one boot on Powergirl's back. Her alien rival was unresponsive.

Batwoman could have incapacitated Karin in about thirty seconds, but she'd wanted to put on a show for the crowd. It had been almost fun, leaping and dodging and sliding out of Powergirl's way as Karin tried to pummel her into the ground. But Karin had clipped her with a glancing blow to the back of her head. After that, it was an easy decision to end the fight before the next hit resulted in broken bones or blood.

And, speaking of blood, she spit a gob of it onto the floor, and wiped at her lips with the back of her hand. "That the best you've got? I'm two for two, Roulette!"

Slight of hand had been the key, in the end. She'd swung herself onto Karen's back, and clapped her glove holding her smoke pellet over the woman's mouth. The pellet was a new design; filled to capacity with liquid anesthetic gas. The second the fluid inside touched oxygen, she'd held her breath as the colorless gas was sucked into Karen's lungs.

Kryptonians were near invincible on the outside. But even they had to breathe. And Bruce had been drilling their weaknesses into her head since the day they'd first seen Superman fly overhead on patrol. Anesthesia, in gaseous form, was more than enough to subdue the flying powerhouses if Kryptonite was  unavailable.

The panel started to lower, and she stepped back again onto more stable ground, throwing out her hands. "Please tell me you've got something tougher than a Kryptonian! I'm starting to get bored, here!"

In the crowd, she could see Lex Luthor's jaw drop. She was willing to bet money that he was trying to decide how on earth she'd taken down a full-blooded Kryptonian so quickly. The other faces, Queen Bee, Doctor Strange…they all gaped.

But Roulette only smiled.

"I'm so glad you asked," she crooned, "Because, ladies and gentlemen, for one night only, we've got a treat for you! Have you ever wanted the chance to dismantle a Bat with your bare hands? Well—"

Barbara raised an eyebrow. Was Roulette honestly considering letting her own spectators into the ring with her? She was pretty sure she could take most of the baddies in the room…pretty sure…

"Tonight's your chance! In corner one, we've got our new undefeated champ— _Batwoman!"_

Barbara wasn't certain that winning two fights made her an 'undefeated champ', but she didn't really care how Roulette wanted to sell it; she was just ready to knock a few heads, then get her little sister back.

"But she won't be fighting alone, folks! She'll be teaming up with last night's champion! He's big, he's bad, but is he a match for the likes of you? Give it up for the one…but apparently not the  _only…"_

The panel on Barbara's right rose slowly, and her jaw almost hit the floor.

" _Batman!"_

Dick stood next to her, frowning. His wrists were cuffed just like hers had been, and he rolled his shoulders with a sigh. Then, he glanced over at her, and jumped.

"Bar—uh,  _Batwoman?"_

" _There_ you are." She let out a frustrated huff. "What was it this time, Wingnut? Did she pull up to the curb and offer you candy?"

"Hey. Not my fault everyone wants me." He waggled his eyebrows. It was difficult to tell underneath the cowl, but she could see it.

"You're a real damsel in distress, you know that? Is this like, the twelfth time you've gotten yourself bat-napped?"

"Oh, I'm pretty sure we're up in the twenty-somethings by now." He chuckled. "Hey, if they had a 'frequent-flier' thing for kidnapping, do you think—"

"I get it. You're a wimp." She grinned.

"Heh. Not exactly how I'd put it, but what can I say." He glowered at the crowd around them. Roulette had just announced an opening bid, so it seemed as though multiple baddies would have the chance to pay for the privilege of ripping them to pieces. "But if I'm here…and you're here…why haven't we blown this popsicle stand, yet?"

"They've got Steph," Barbara muttered. "Roulette promised to let us both go if I won three fights. You?"

"She told me she had you."

"Welp." Barbara threw out both hands. "Here I am. But first things first, do you have a chip?"

He shook his head, and reached up with his cuffed hands to tap the side of his head. "Couldn't drill their way through the ol' cowl. When they tried to get it off me, it electrocuted them and woke me up." He paused. "Hey, did you know they've got, like, the entire Team down there? Most of the League, too."

"Yep." She sighed and watched the numbers on the scoreboard climb, reaching the millions. "Right now, I think we've got bigger problems to worry about."

Winning bidders flashed across the screen:

BLOCKBUSTER

VICTOR ZSASZ

COPPERHEAD

Batwoman snorted. "Pfft.  _Really?_ These guys? How come none of the big-wigs or Rogues wanted a piece of us?"

Dick shot her a conspiratorial grin. "Because," he said, "The big-wigs know better."

Half of the dome lowered, leaving the ring exposed to open air. Both Bats surged forwards, but stopped as their boots stuck to the floor, like they'd stepped in fly paper. They were rendered immobile as the three baddies they'd be facing jumped down into the ring.

Blockbuster shook the entire ground when he landed, and growled low in his throat when he saw the two Bats. Copperhead was more wiry, and landed softly on his feet. He hissed and shot them a wink as he ran the tip of his tongue over his gleaming fangs. Zsasz, on the other hand, was definitely a Gothamite, through and through. Not as lean as the snake man, not as strong as the big blue monster, but he was wielding a shining set of knives, and covered with hundreds of tallying scars that each told a story about how he'd used them. One for each victim.

"Fine," Batwoman sighed. "How do you wanna play this?"

Batman shrugged. "I go low, you go high?"

"I'm down for that. But it's only gonna work on Blockbuster, I think. You want Zsasz or the snake?"

Batman cracked his neck. "Let's just see if I can't give Mr. Z a few more scars tonight."

"Hon, those scars mean—"

"Yeah. But you know what I meant."

"Fine."

The crowd pumped their fists, counting down. Dick's cuffs beeped and fell harmlessly to the floor. Then they both felt their boots come unstuck; Roulette wanted a show, and they wouldn't be as entertaining if they died standing still, would they? Barbara smirked up at their hostess, and shot her a little wave.

"You realize, Roulette," she called out, "that you picked the wrong capes to mess with tonight?"

Something seemed to dawn on the villainess, as her face went slack. "I—"

" _One!"_ the crowd shouted.  _"Fight!"_

The three villains lunged forwards, giving Dick just enough time to turn to her and smile, one eyebrow raised. "Milady?"

She jumped toward him and let his hands close around her wrists. He spun, swinging her around, around and around before letting go. Batwoman launched up, over even Blockbuster's spiny head, and let her cape snap out behind her.

Then, she dove down, and locked her arms around Blockbuster's neck. She had to concentrate harder than she should have, to swing her legs up and over the monster's shoulder, but she managed. At the same time, Batman rammed his whole body into Blockbuster's abdomen. Between the momentum from above, and the force from below, the monster didn't even stand a chance. He fell to the floor with an earth-shaking crash. Batwoman moved quickly to crush another anesthetic pellet into his mouth before ducking to the side. One of Zsasz's knives sliced through the air, narrowly missing her left ear.

The Gotham assassin grinned a shark-like grin, then reached for another knife. This time, to send through her chest plate. Before he got the chance, Batman's fist cracked across his cheek. That drew his attention away long enough for Batwoman to finish up Blockbuster.

The monster was fighting unconsciousness, groaning as she tried to pry open his mouth. But to no avail. Batwoman huffed, and raised her fist to crush the pellet into Blockbuster's nose, but two arms circled her neck from behind.

She choked as they yanked her back, lifting her feet off the ground. Instinctively, she twisted her foot behind Copperhead's right calf, and stiffened, effectively keeping the snake from moving back any further. Barbara moved to kick her other heel up into the villain's manhood, but his tail swirled around her legs, keeping her immobile.

She strained in the snake's grasp, and felt his hot breath against her cheek as he leaned in to whisper: "You're kinda cute when you squirm, Batgirl."

Barbara gagged, and not just from the headlock. "Bat.  _Woman._ Why is… _ck…_ that so hard?

A few feet away, Zsasz had Dick backed up against the edge of the dome. The assassin cackled and raised one of his knives. "This is going to be my favorite scar, little boy. I'll gut you right here, in front of your pretty little—"

He tapered off, as the Batman's smile widened.

Not a lot of villains, Barbara realized, were probably used to seeing such a wicked grin on a Batman's face.

Dick suddenly jumped up, and threw his arms out to either side. Thanks to his gauntlets, his fingers stuck easily to the glass, giving him all the leverage he needed to swing the rest of his body up. He kicked out, and planted both boots in Zsasz's face. The villain crumpled, and whimpered as he spat out a mouthful of blood and tooth fragments.

"I hate to disappoint, Zazzy," Batman said with a smirk, "But I'd be more worried about getting yourself to a good dentist, if I was you."

Zsasz let out a pitiful mewl.

Dick squared his shoulders, and turned to Batwoman, and the snake currently twined around her.

Copperhead tightened his grip, and Barbara let out an involuntary wheeze. She could feel her ribcage creaking. "N-not another step closer! Or she gets it!"

Batman stopped, and looked at her. "You sure you got this one?"

Batwoman managed a wry smile as she squeaked out, "Your lack of fuh…faith disturbs me."

Copperhead had left her hands free, even if she couldn't raise them above her head. Barbara rubbed her fingers together quickly, waiting for that little hum. The villain was shaking.

"What're you talking about?" he demanded. "Listen, Bats. Surrender right now or I'll bite her!"

Copperhead did have enough venom to lay her out flat, or worse. But she wasn't exactly about to let that happen. Barbara twisted slightly, fingers crackling with energy, and jammed her hand into the snake's side. He let out a scream, convulsing, and Batwoman gave silent thanks that her suit was insulated. But the charge in her gloves had to be all but used up by now.

The smell of cooked snake hung in the air as Copperhead peeled off of her, and fell limply to the floor. Thankfully not dead, but definitely out for the next day or so.

She rubbed her neck, grimacing, and Dick was at her side in a second.

"See that?" he called out. "We win!"

"Hold up your end of the bargain, Roulette!" Barbara glowered.

Roulette's tinkling laughter floated out over the arena. The spectators were buzzing in their seats, most grinning wickedly. Both Bats planted their feet and exchanged a glance.

"Is that what you think? That you won?" She laughed again, and the crowd joined her.

Behind them, there was a sickening thud.

They turned, slowly.

Blockbuster had pulled himself to his feet. Now, he raised both fists in the air, and let out an earsplitting roar.

Barbara looked at Dick, and Dick looked at Barbara.

Then, they both smiled.

"Would you like to do the honors?" He twirled one hand in a permissive gesture.

Batwoman smiled and shook her head. "Let's show these baddies what the Bats can do.  _Together."_

The monster roared again, and surged toward them. His fingers grasped at the air, ready to reach out and wring their necks. Both Bats hit the ground at the same time, sliding and letting Blockbuster rumble over them as they rolled out of the way of his stomping feet.

The monster turned from side to side, trying to figure out where his prey had gone. Dick stuck his finger and his thumb into his mouth and gave out a piercing whistle.

Blockbuster whirled on them again, and growled. He charged like a raging bull, fists out and at the ready.

The Bats raced forward to meet him head on. Barbara slid a little on her boots as she leaned down to scoop up the anesthetic pellet without stopping once. Once they were a mere five feet away, they jumped into the air.

The crowd let out a collective gasp as the Bats landed on each of Blockbuster's clenched fists.

Barbara and Dick were silent, but each knew what the other would do just as certainly as they knew their own names. They cartwheeled, planting their palms into the monster's forearms and twisting their bodies up and around. Both grabbed one of Blockbuster's shoulders and leapt up into the air. They tucked their heads down, and spun until their feet could kick out and land in the monster's shoulder blades.

The top-heavy monster stumbled, and landed on his knees. He moved to get up, then turned in shock as the two Bats descended out of the air. Mouths open in a battle cry, shoulders turning, arms moving as one, Batman and Batwoman both planted a fist into the monster's face.

The pellet between Barbara's knuckles cracked against one of his teeth, and exploded. The gas was sucked into Blockbuster's lungs almost as soon as it touched air, and the monster fell back. The thud shook the ground, and Blockbuster lay stretched out and unconscious.

The Bats panted, and exchanged a smile. Dick's fist extended, and Barbara knocked her knuckles with his.

"Now," Barbara called out. "We win."

Both sides of the dome split, and descended, like a blooming flower opening its petals. Roulette's wicked smile curled up her face as the hundreds and hundreds of villains in the stands got to their feet. The sound of thudding boots filled the scene as dozens of Roulette's employees circled the ring. They cocked their firearms, and pointed the weapons squarely at the Bats' chests.

"Please," Roulette replied. "Did you  _honestly_ think it would be that easy? You know too much, little bats. I couldn't possibly let you go, now."

Dick sighed, and rolled his neck. "Yep. Saw that one coming."

Barbara readied her fists. "Alrighty, then, Wingnut. What's the plan?"

"Obviously," he muttered, "We kick the trash out of every member of the League of Shadows, the Light, the Rogues, the—"

"I meant  _realistically."_

"Ah. Well. In that case, we fight our way to the exits, and get the #$%% out of here."

She sighed, and shot him a smile. "I'm really going to miss that naïve optimism."

The Bats raised their fists.

But before they could leap into battle, a piercing whistle cut through the room.

Every eye in the room spun up to the exits. They were toward the top of the arena, opposite of Roulette's control hub. There, a crowd of women was standing with hands on hips and looks fit to kill.

The Birds of Prey had arrived.

Leading the way was a woman dressed all in black, with her signature fish-net tights and flowing platinum blonde hair. Dina gave the crowd a little wave, and opened her mouth to speak. Her voice carried all the way through the arena.

"Hey Roulette," she said, smiling, "Ready for round two?"

The villainess paled.

Black Canary spread her feet and opened her mouth. A piercing Canary Cry ripped through the air, and every villain and baddie covered their ears, shrieking. The glass panels protecting Roulette's hub shook, then shattered, raining glass down on the spectators below. Two women at Canary's side broke from the ranks and soared into the air. Barbara recognized them instantly as Fire and Vixen. Both crashed down into Roulette's hub, and started throwing fists and kicks as the evil hostess strained to put up a fight.

Villains surged out of their seats, and the Birds rushed to meet them.

The sounds of battle filled the room, and Batman and Batwoman threw themselves into the fray.

"Do you really think," someone, probably Lex Luthor, shouted over the cacophony, "That a few little girls can take on our might and power?"

Cheesy. Barbara almost rolled her eyes. Then, she planted a fist straight into Black Spider's face.

Huntress grinned, and launched herself over the railing. She rolled as she hit the floor near Barbara, making for a perfect landing. "Please," she replied. "You really think we wouldn't bring backup?"

The ring floor shook beneath their feet, and all the heroes leapt out of the way. Superboy and Powergirl surged up and out from underneath the arena. Chunks of concrete flew through the air as they launched themselves out and up to freedom. Behind them, the rest of the captive members of the League and Team burst out of the gaping hole. They let out a battle cry as they rushed to meet the villains.

"Hi!" A voice next to Barbara's ear made her jump. She whirled around, and almost knocked into Stephanie, who was grinning as she spun to kick out at Toy Man. "My name is Backup, how may I assist you today?"

Barbara grinned, and waited until Batgirl laid Toy Man out on his back. Then, she grabbed her little sister and wrapped her in a bear hug. "There you are!"

"Wow," Jason shouted, as he fired off a few rubber rounds nearby. "Feelin' that love. Didn't I tell you she plays favorites, Red?"

Tim leapt over Ragdoll's shoulder, then planted his bo staff in the villain's back. "I think we all know who the favorite is, Red," he shot back. "M—"

"Correct." Damian slid underneath Fiddler's feet, and kicked up sharply. The baddie's face puckered as he doubled over. "Me. I am her favorite. Because I'm the best."

Jason and Tim let out protesting shouts, and punched out at their respective opponents.

Dick laughed, and pressed his back to Barbara's. They linked arms as they both jumped up, relying on the other to give them momentum as they kicked their feet out into a different villain's face. "Boys, boys," he said, "There's no need to fight. We all know that  _I'm_ BW's favorite."

Barbara shook her head, smiling. To Steph, she demanded, "How did you get them all out? All Roulette has to do is press one button, and they'll turn on  _us."_

Batgirl smirked and waved her finger. Black Spider got back up, and lunged towards her, but Stephanie took him down quickly with two well placed hits with her staff. "We hacked those little chips in their heads," she said smugly. "Called your Birds to take topside, while I took the boys underground to do a little computer work. Easy-peasy lemon—" She threw out her fist and caught Captain Cold in the nose. He let out a sharp bark and fell backwards. "Anyway. Seems like you've had an interesting day."

Batwoman smirked. "Oh, hon, you have no idea." There were almost no enemies to take out now. Barbara paused, and surveyed the room, where the last of the villains were putting up a pitiful fight. In a matter of minutes, though, it would all be over. "I do have to ask though. How did you get away?"

"Huh?"

"From Roulette? Who did she have you fighting?"

Stephanie shook her head, and collapsed her staff. It was designed to compress into a tube that was about the size of a ruler; small enough to easily fit in Batgirl's hip holster, and big enough to double as a club in a pinch. "Don't know what you're talking about, boss-lady. I've never been here before."

Barbara swore, and glared up at Roulette's shattered control center. Right now, Helena was busy tying the villainess's hands behind her back with a large, smug smirk.

"What?" Steph cocked her head.

"Doesn't matter." Dick and her brothers wandered over to join them, wiping away blood, and holstering their weapons of choice. Batman nodded, and clapped Jason on the shoulder.

"BW's right. What matters is that you guys actually managed to work together for a few minutes to make this all happen. Look around, guys." He nodded at the unconscious villains scattered throughout the room. More likely than not, most of them had escaped. Either way, though, the fight was over. "You did that."

Two figures floated down from the upper seats, coming to a rest on the ring floor a few feet away from the Bats. Green Lantern and Martian Manhunter both nodded, arms crossed tightly over their chests. A blur of red and yellow streaked past, and Wally West appeared at their side, grinning.

"Thank you," J'ohnn said, voice rumbling. "We could not have escaped without your help."

Hal nodded. "What he said. Batman and Batwoman especially." He paused. "Speaking of, have the two of you given any thought to our offer yet?"

Batman raised an eyebrow. "What offer?"

"Dude!" Wally rushed over, and looped an arm over Dick's shoulder. "You're in! Haven't they told you yet?"

Barbara reached into her suit, and pulled out the two black envelopes she'd gotten from Green Arrow. "I think they mean these, Batman."

Dick reached out and took one of the envelopes, then peeled it open. His eyes traced over the words, and Barbara saw his jaw slacken. "What?"

"That's right!" Wally smacked a hand against his friend's back. "You're both officially Leaguers, now, and—"

"Flash," J'ohnn said. "Nothing has been made official."

"And the invitation only extends to one of them," Hal continued.

The grin slipped off Wally's face. "What? But we voted—"

Martian Manhunter shook his head. "The entire League voted to forgive Batman and Batwoman for their…insubordination at their mentor's funeral last year. Membership was only discussed."

"And the senior members voted to only let one of them in." Green Lantern frowned.

Barbara threw up a hand, and all eyes turned to her. " _Insubordination?"_

She pronounced each syllable with biting malice. Already, she could feel her family members bristling behind her. Batwoman forced herself to calm down, knowing full well that an all-out fight would break out if she didn't. She took a deep breath through her nose, then exhaled.

"Thank you for your consideration," she said hollowly, "But Batman and I haven't yet had the chance to talk things over." She put a hand on Dick's shoulder, and they both turned to leave. Their siblings followed after them. "We'll notify you as soon as we reach a decision."

Wally's arms hung at his sides. "Hey," he called, "We'll figure this out."

"We know," Dick replied.

Dina rushed over, grinning, and threw her arms around Barbara's neck. "I think this is finally the end of Roulette's little operation," she said. "Lemme know if you ever need me to come save your sorry &$$ again, yeah?"

Barbara laughed. "Thanks, Di. Will do."

"No problem." She pulled away, and started back towards the other Birds. "But don't be a stranger, B! You're always welcome back in Cormorant!"

Batwoman waved, smiling, then turned back to her family.

The Bats marched out of the arena together. The doors slammed behind them, and they each took a deep breath of the fresh night air, smiling. This may have been Bludhaven—definitely far from home—but no matter where they were, night time was the same.

Batman stretched his arms into the air and groaned. "Alright, here's the deal. Everyone sleeps in ‘til at least ten tomorrow—and that's p.m., FYI—cause we're not doing  _anything_ but relaxing. We're all gonna be sore as f—"

"Bats," Barbara cut in, wincing. "I really hate to be the bearer of tragic news, but we  _can't_  take the day off tomorrow."

"What?" Dick whimpered, like she'd kicked him in the side. "Why not?"

"Oh, babe." She laid a hand on his shoulder. "Tomorrow night? It's the WE gala…"

"What?" he squeaked. "N-no…"

Tim and Damian groaned.

Steph sighed.

Jason shrugged. "Welp. You losers have fun with that."

Tim glowered, "What do you mean? You have to go with us, you know."

"Oh, no. I don't." Jason stalked off towards the waiting Batmobile, and waved a hand over his shoulder. "Despite what people tell you, being legally dead  _does_ have its perks."

The rest of her siblings turned to her, incredulous. Barbara could only shrug. "Sorry guys, but he's right. The press would have a  _field day_ if he walked in."

"Not. Freaking. Fair." Steph muttered, scowling.

The Batmobile hatch slid open, and they all climbed in. Dick groaned as he heaved himself over the side, and buckled himself into the seat. "Well," he said, "fair doesn't start 'til you're twenty-one. And even then…" He shot Barbara a pitiful glance. "Even then."

She laughed. "We'll be okay. We just took down Blockbuster! I think we can handle a few socialites and reporters."

"Right." Dick revved the engine. "Reporters. Yay."

 


	5. The Vulture

 

Barbara's dreams were blissful that night. Or, more specifically, they were nonexistent.

She barely even knew that she was asleep until the buzzing sound grating against her bedside table made her crack her eyes open with a groan.

_BZZZ-BZZZ…BZZZ-BZZZ_

Her hand flopped out from under the covers as she squinted in the general direction of her phone. Then winced, as she smacked her hand on the corner of the table a few times before managing to grasp the offending noise-maker in her palm.

"Nnn," Dick groaned, and rolled over. He buried his head underneath his mound of pillows. "Stop it… _Babs…."_

"Tryin' to," she slurred. "Gimme…sec."

Barbara rubbed her knuckles into her eyes, and smacked her lips, then squinted at the small screen. 2:30 p.m., according to the little white numbers at the top.  _Way_ too early. So why…?

A text bubble popped up underneath the numbers. 1 MESSAGE FROM  **VULTURE LADY:**

JUST ANOTHER REMINDER THAT I'LL BE STOPPING BY THIS AFTERNOON FOR THAT INTERVIEW WE SCHEDULED. SORRY FOR THE INFORMAL TEXT, BUT NEITHER YOU NOR RICHARD HAVE BEEN ANSWERING MY CALLS, SO…

The message was followed by a little shrugging emoji.

It took Babs three re-reads and a full forty-five seconds to fully process the message.

Then, she exploded out from under the covers. Barbara bolted across the room and started rummaging through her drawers until she found something more-or-less professional looking. Dick had bolted upright when she'd jumped out of bed, and was now staring at her with wide eyes from behind a curtain of sleep-bedraggled hair. "Uh. Babs?"

She stripped out of her pajamas and started stuffing her arms into a slightly wrinkled button-down blouse. "Did you schedule an interview for  _today_?" she demanded.

He brushed aside the hair and gaped. "What interview?"

Pencil skirt…beige tights…dangly gold earrings…Barbara shook her head and fumbled around her desk for her makeup kit. "Vulture Lady," she said, ripping it open as she hunted for her foundation. "Is on her way here right now."

"Vulture—" He jolted up straight, and tumbled out of bed. "That harpy!"

They staggered around the room, as Babs hunted for her eyeshadow (If Jason had taken it again, she was going to  _scream)_ and Dick desperately tried to pull on suitable clothing. A few times, they knocked into each other, but shrugged it off and kept hurrying.

"I didn't schedule an interview," Dick growled. If someone could  _angrily_ put on a blue striped tie, then Dick did it perfectly.

"It's another one of her mind games. Trying to throw us off balance."

"Least she didn't pop in this  _morning_ ," he grumbled, as he searched the bottom of Barbara's closet for his shoes.

Barbara glowered into the mirror and slashed her lipstick across her mouth. " _Freaking_ reporters, Dick.  _Freaking_ reporters."

"Funny, I was gonna use a different word."

She straightened, and reached up to pull her hair into as nice a bun as she could manage given the circumstances. When she spun around, she paused, looking her boyfriend up and down. "Um…"

Dick turned around. His eyes were hidden behind a black domino mask—they still had a few of his old ones lying around the room, the cave, etc. She pursed her lips, and tapped her temple. Dick cocked his head, then said, "Oh! Oh, right. Sorry." He ripped off the mask and shoved it into her desk drawer. "Habit."

Barbara reached up and clapped her hands on both of his shoulders. "You go tell Alfred, and do a sweep. I can't remember if we left our gear in the living room last night or not. And believe me, we do  _not_ want Vulture Lady to find masks and uniforms on the couch."

He nodded curtly. "Got it."

"I'll go wake up the kids, hide Jason and Steph, and make sure that Timmy and Dami are presentable."

"Good."

They clapped each other on the back, and raced out of the room. On her way out, Barbara snatched up two metal pans that often came in handy on mornings like these. She gripped them like samurai swords as she dashed down the stairs and into the hallway with her little siblings' rooms.

Both pans smashed together as she shouted. "Code Press! Emergency! I repeat, Code Press!"

When that failed to elicit any sort of the usual response—confused, angry or otherwise—Barbara banged her fist on Damian's door. "Robin! Up and at 'em!"

No response. She threw the door open, and Titus looked up from his perch on top of Damian's bedspread. He gave a mighty huff, then laid his head back down on his paws. Her little brother, on the other hand, was hanging upside down from the ceiling. He'd rigged a rope, which he'd tied around one ankle, and had his hands folded close to his chin as he spun in slow, lazy circles. Around…then around.

Barbara closed her eyes and shook her head. Then, she banged her pots again. "Dami!"

Damian's eyes shot open. "What is it, Delphi? You're interrupting my morning meditation."

"Code Press," she snapped.

His eyes widened. "I see. Formal wear, then?"

Barbara backed out of the room, gripping the door handle. "Please. And be ready in five."

"I understand."

She shut the door gently, then took a deep breath.  _Morning meditation?_ Maybe he was trying to…'harness his inner bat'…or something like that.

Jason's room was next down the line. (They'd figured it would be safer to put Jason next to Damian, since the older boy was more likely to survive a midnight blitz attack from a five-foot pajama-clad ninja.) Barbara's fist slammed against the door in rapid succession, then when she got no reply, she threw open the door—

—And instantly slammed it back shut, eyes wide.

She leaned against the wall, and squinted her eyes shut. "Guys!" she groaned. "Put a  _sock_ on the door or something next time!"

Jason and Stephanie's muffled voices squeaked back from behind the door, and a few seconds later, the door creaked open. Jason squinted in the light of the hallway, and frantically tied his bathrobe shut. He cocked his head as he looked at Barbara.  _"What?"_

She huffed. "Seriously? We talked about this—"

Steph's head popped up from behind Jason's shoulder. "We know, we know. And we  _did,_ so don't worry about—"

"Code. Press." Barbara waved her hand and turned away. "I need you two to find somewhere to hide. Preferably the cave. Preferably  _separate."_

"Press…?" Jason's eyes widened. "Is it Vulture Lady?"

Stephanie raised an eyebrow. "Who the heck is Vulture Lady?"

He grabbed her shoulder, and steered her back inside the room. Real fear flashed across his face as he snatched up Steph's wrist and said, "Hurry and get dressed, babe. I'll explain in the cave."

Barbara shook her head, and continued down past Stephanie's room (probably not the best idea to put those two so close together, after all…) and over to Tim's. She was almost afraid to open the door, and settled for turning the knob without any announcement.

The room was dark—even for her—the only light coming from three laptops set up in a semi-circle around Tim Drake. He frantically typed something up on one, then rotated to check something on another. Papers were scattered all over his bed, all over his carpet. On the wall, and even covering the windows, there was an enormous evidence board. Red string criss-crossed over papers and news clippings and photographs like blood vessels and veins.

When she saw it all, Barbara dropped one of her pans.

Tim looked up sharply. The circles underneath his eyes were starkly clear by the light of his laptops.

"Hey, Babs," he rasped.

"Oh, Timmy." She stepped into the room, gaping at all of the papers and strings and… "Please tell me you got some sleep last night."

He pursed his lips, and returned to typing. "I don't need sleep. I need  _answers."_

"Yeah, well, what you need is some serious REM, little bro." Barbara reached out and twanged one of the strings. It connected a photograph of a revolver to a list of numbers and figures. She couldn't help but wince. "You're starting to turn into the Question. You don't need that kind of paranoia in your life. Not now, not—"

His thumb pounded against the spacebar with a fierce  _TAP._ "Difference between him and me is that he's a paranoid conspiracy theorist. He deals with things that most likely  _aren't_ true. Now, me on the other hand—"

"Timmy," she sighed, lowering her hand, "We've talked about this. I—"

Tim's chin jerked up, and his expression was dark.

"He's  _alive,_ Babs." His fingers curled up around the top of his laptop as he lowered the screen slightly. "I  _know_ he is."

He returned to his data, and Barbara let out a small groaning sigh. What was she supposed to tell her little brother? Did she need to remind him that they'd all sat helplessly and watched their father get shot by a madman in some twisted game of chance? Did she need to bring up the autopsy reports and the photos from the wake in order to make him get some sleep?

But she wouldn't. Truth was: all of that? Those were the things that kept  _her_  up at night.

"Yeah. I know. You don't have to say it," Tim muttered. Without glancing up at her, he continued on with his key-tapping. "But I know I'm right, and you know it, too."

"I do, huh?"

"Yes," he replied. Then, he snapped his laptop shut and snapped his fingers. The lights flickered on, and he grimaced at the sudden brightness. Looking her square in the eye, he leaned forward, and said, slowly,

"Bruce Wayne was the &*#%^$&  _Batman._ The Dark Knight." Tim threw his hands in the air. "The man didn't blow his nose without a contingency plan! Do you really think he would just hand the Joker a loaded gun, and tell him to have at it  _without_ a backup strategy?"

Barbara closed her eyes. "You do have a point, Timmy. Really. But the fact of the matter is that we all  _watched_ him…we all saw what happened. And it's been over a year, now." She rubbed a finger over a newspaper photo of three caped figures soaring over the city streets. She couldn't bring herself to say the next words that came to mind.

_Even if he_ were  _still out there…why would he stay away so long?_

_…Why would he leave us?_

"Tim, look. We—"

Dick's voice bellowed through the house, almost shaking the walls.

"THE VULTURE APPROACHES! BATTLE STATIONS!"

Tim jumped, and shot Barbara a wide-eyed glance. "Vulture? Is that some new Rogue?"

Barbara stiffened. She'd completely forgotten all about the impending intruder. She grasped her little brother's shoulder, and lowered her voice into a frantic whisper. "How fast can you suit up?"

He straightened. "My uniform's in the closet. Let me just—"

"No.  _Suit_ suit up. Shirt and tie." She shook him a little. "Time is of the  _essence,_ Timmy."

Tim got up off the bed and staggered over to his closet. He rummaged through a series of shirts and suit jackets, then pulled out a quick selection. "What is all of this about?"

Barbara flew to the window, and lifted the corner of one of Tim's papers. She could just barely make out the black sedan coming up the drive. They had minutes, at best. And that was only if Alfred could stall.

"The Vulture Lady," Barbara hissed. "Tim, you're going to need to lock your room. If she makes it past the sitting room, we can probably convince her it's a storage closet, or—"

He looped his tie over his neck and started fumbling with the ends. "Babs, who the heck is  _Vulture Lady?"_

"Right," she muttered. "Before your time. You might know her as She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

Tim's shirt was almost halfway buttoned, and he stared at her blankly. "Can't say that rings a bell."

"BABS!" Dick shouted from downstairs. "THE DARK WITCH APPROACHETH! I NEED REINFORCEMENTS!"

Barbara spun around, and headed for the door. Tim watched her go with a slack jaw. "Are you  _sure_ I don't need to grab my belt—"

She threw open the door. "Oh, Timmy. Throw on some real pants and comb your hair. It's your best defense. Your belt won't save us. Not from her."

Tim threw his arms out to the side. " _Who?"_ he demanded.

But she was already dashing down the hall, and almost collided with a smartly-dressed Damian. She steadied her youngest brother, then ran for the stairs. She did turn, though, once she'd grasped the banister, and shouted out,

"Vale!"

A knock sounded on the door, and she cursed.

"Vicki  _freaking_ Vale!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dick positioned Tim and Damian on the sitting room couch, then skidded over to Barbara, who was waiting patiently just out of sight of the door. They watched tensely as Alfred reached for the doorknob.

"It's been an honor, Babs," Dick muttered.

Barbara swallowed the lump in her throat. "Same to you, Grayson."

"Tt." Damian tipped his chin up, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. "Drake, explain to me why these two are being so overly dramatic. What's so frightening about some air-headed reporter?"

Tim was too busy watching his older siblings. He'd almost never seen them like this before, with only a few exceptions. He'd never personally met Vicki Vale, star reporter of the  _Gotham Gazette,_ but he'd taken a few questions from her during WE press conferences. She was famous for being cutthroat and blunt; cutting straight to the point was what got her the stories she needed to put herself on top in the press world.

Still. Why were his older siblings shooting each other wary glances as Alfred opened the door? They'd gone up against Bane and Killer Crock no problem. Heck, they  _laughed_ when they did it.

"This is a lot of overkill over nothing," Damian muttered. And Tim kind of agreed.

The door creaked open, and Dick and Babs straightened sharply.

"Why, Ms. Vale," Alfred said drily. "What a surprise. If I'd known you'd be stopping by, I would have released the hounds."

"'Sup, Jeeves." A woman shouldered her way past the butler and stumbled into the manor. She was dressed in a pantsuit and heels, but found a way to make the outfit look almost predatory. Her narrowed eyes swept the room, and landed on the Wayne kids. A smug smile curled up her face.

"Why, Richard!" She stuck out a hand. Dick hesitated, then reached out to shake, pasting on a quick smile. "It's been  _ages,_ honey! You sure have grown up quite a bit haven't you?"

The reporter looked him up and down, smirking. Until Barbara cleared her throat.

"Vicki," she said warmly. "How have you been?"

"Fine, just fine." She spared their sister a glance. "Good to see that  _you're_ still around. A leech can stay put for a long time, though, can't it? I sure wish  _I_ could elbow my way into such a powerful family. Have you  _seen_ what a reporter's salary is, hon? You are so lucky." Vicki Vale tipped her head back and laughed. Barbara's smile curdled a bit, but stayed put.

"Please come have a seat," Dick said curtly.

"You sure?" she demanded, already plopping herself down on a plush red armchair.

"Of course." Barbara stepped into the sitting room, then seated herself on a chair close to Tim and Damian. Dick sat on their opposite side. Tim glanced at his siblings out of the corner of his eyes; it was almost like they were positioning themselves in front of him and Damian. Kind of like they were shielding them. "We weren't expecting company, especially since we've got a party to get ready for in the next few hours, but we're willing to make an exception for the famous Vicki Vale."

"Ha! Flattery gets you nowhere." She smiled wryly. "And if you weren't expecting me, darling, then why get all dressed up?"

Barbara's smile froze on her face.

"You're going to that gala tonight, aren't you?" Dick shot her a pointed stare. The undertones were more than clear to Tim.

_If you're going tonight, then why the #$%% are you_ _here?_

Ms. Vale smirked, and rested her chin on the back of her hand. Her red lacquered nails clicked as her free hand dug into her purse. "Of course. I never miss out on a chance to pick the brains of Gotham's high and mighty. And Wayne Enterprise’s parties? Those attract the highest and the mightiest." She pulled a pen from her purse, and clicked it. Tim watched Dick flinch a bit at the sound. "Speaking of, who are these little guys? I've met Mr. Drake over here in passing, but who's the munchkin?"

_Oh, lady,_ Tim thought, daring a glance at Damian. His little brother's face had pinched up.  _Dangerous territory._

"This is Damian," Barbara said shortly.

"Aw, hi there, Damian," Vale crooned. She leaned forward, pen at the ready. "Tell me a little about yourself. What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Damian opened his mouth to answer, probably truthfully, but Dick cut in with a laugh that drew the reporter's attention. "Straight to the questions, huh, Vicki?" Meanwhile, Barbara kicked Damian's foot with hers, and shook her head slightly. The little demon scowled, but nodded.

"Of course," Vale clipped. "I'd love to sit around and chatter mindlessly all day, but sadly, time is money, and this may come as a shock to you, Mr. Grayson, but not all of us  _have_ that."

"Says five-time winner of the Pulitzer Prize, and self-proclaimed 'world's greatest reporter'," Barbara shot back. She giggled pleasantly, but Tim knew her well enough to sense the edge in her tone. "Vicki, we're not here to argue. In fact, we're in a bit of a hurry, too."

"So we'll answer any questions you might have, then send you on your way to get ready for the party tonight," Dick continued.

"Good. That's what I like to hear." Vicki leaned back in her chair and smirked. Her pen tapped against her notepad as she looked back up at Damian. "Now. What did you say you wanted to be when you grow up, sweetie?"

Damian scowled, and tipped his chin up.

"A detective."

Vale's face lit up, and Dick and Barbara blanched.

"How sweet. Looking for clues, putting the bad guys in jail. See, I thought you'd want to follow in your father's footsteps, sweetheart. Unless…"

Barbara cleared her throat, and Vale trailed off. "He's been obsessed with the Sherlock Holmes books lately. And when his class went on a fieldtrip to the GCPD, he got to meet the detectives there."

"Detectives Montoya and Allen really made an impression on him," Dick added with a thin smile.

"I see." Vale scribbled down something onto the paper, and Tim watched his older siblings' fists clench. "Alright, then, Damian. Tell me about your father. What do you think of him? What to you love…and what do you  _hate_  about the high and mighty Bruce Wayne? Did you know about his corruption, his vices, his—"

Damian's face reddened as he sucked in a breath.

_Oh, please,_ Tim silently begged.  _Don't—_

"My father was a great man," he shot back.

Vale's eyes narrowed as her smile widened. " _Was?"_

Dick swallowed hard. Almost imperceptibly, Barbara tapped three fingers on her skirt. Alfred glanced over from his post in the doorway, and nodded curtly, before slipping away. Damian glowered, almost foaming at the mouth.

"Yes. Are you hard of hearing, you mindless cow? I said—"

"Master Damian!" Alfred reemerged. One hand was pressed neatly behind his back, while the other held up a handheld. "I believe you have a phone call."

Damian looked up, and Vale's face reddened in frustration. "Pardon, Pennyworth? Who is it from?"

"I'm sure I don't know, my boy. But they said it was urgent."

The youngest Wayne leapt off the couch, and hurried out of the room after Alfred. Vicki Vale watched him leave with clenched fists and a tight jaw, but Dick and Babs visibly relaxed. Then, they straightened up again as she turned and sighed.

"Such a shame. Little ones are so much better at answering the big questions." She looked up, then repositioned her pen. "But I suppose  _you'd_ know all about that, wouldn't you, Richard?"

Dick's jaw clenched.

"So," Vale clipped. Her eyes traced over whatever notes she'd scribbled down so far, then she pursed her lips. " _That_ particular train of thought has left the room, so let's move on. And I'd like straight answers, please."

Barbara rolled her eyes. "Of course."

Vale narrowed her eyes at her. "Mmm. Alright. Then tell me, ginger, how many people live in this house?"

"Just the five of us," Barbara said. "Six if you count Alfred."

"Oh, really? Then who, pray tell…" The reporter dug back into her purse, and pulled out three glossy photographs. With a smirk, she slapped them down on the coffee table, and spread them with her fingers. "Is this?"

The photos were dark, out of focus—clearly most of them had been taken at night—but Tim's eyes instantly latched onto the messy black hair with a single white streak. The man was lurking out by the bushes behind the manor, lighting up a cigarette. Climbing one of the trees. Fixing his motorcycle. Making out his face was almost impossible, but it was clearly Jason.

The pictures were met with silence. The reporter smirked at their hesitation, and he could see Barbara and Dick mentally flailing for some sort of cover. He could almost hear them psychically bouncing ideas off the other as they shared a wary glance.

_Never seen him before in my life._

_Then why aren't we saying that right away?_

_Um…he's a stalker?_

_No good. Stalkers don't have their own motorcycles._

_Think, Babs!_

_What do_ you  _think I'm doing?_

Tim's siblings were staring at each other blankly, while Vicki Vale sat back in her chair, enjoying the show. The reporter seemed to find pleasure in making her victims squirm. So, Tim decided he needed to come to their rescue.

He leaned forward, and scooped up one of the photographs. This one was a little clearer than the others, and you could actually almost make out Jason's face. He squinted, and ran a hand distractedly over his forehead. The others were watching him carefully, Dick and Babs with confusion, then a flicker of understanding. Vale shot him a dark look. Then, Tim snapped his fingers.

"Knew I recognized that stupid hair streak!" Tim laughed. "Guys, it's Ed." He passed the photo to Dick, who squinted, then smiled, chuckling. Barbara managed a smile, and the tension in the room seemed to ease a bit.

Vale wasn't satisfied. She frowned, and gripped her pen tighter. "Who is… _Ed?"_

"Well, his name's Eduardo," Tim explained, "But we just call him Ed. He comes around a few times a week to straighten up the yard. Trim the trees. Clean the pool." He shrugged. "You know. Just general maintenance."

"Then why is he at your house at  _night?"_

Barbara shrugged. "He sometimes takes a little longer, but we pay him for overtime."

"Cool guy," Tim added. "Fixed my bike last week."

Vicki raised an eyebrow, and her gaze travelled down to the picture of Jason with his head underneath the cycle, arms up. "Well, see, the operating theory right now is that this young man isn't your maintenance man. He's actually just a boy that Mr. Wayne's been hiding away in his manor for several years, after faking the poor kid's death." Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward threateningly. "This man's name is  _Jason Todd."_

To their credit, Dick and Barbara didn't even flinch. Instead, Barbara's face hardened.

"How dare you?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper. She glared at the reporter, and folded her hands neatly in her lap. "You come here unannounced, and then you throw that name around like an accusation. Jason Todd was like a little  _brother_  to me, and his death was a  _tragedy_." Her voice cracked, and she reached up to cover her mouth in a faked sob. Tim almost wanted to applaud. Was that a fake tear in her eye? "And, may I add, very, very  _real."_

Dick's expression was steely and cold. "Jason was killed by militants on a trip overseas. Do you really want to come in here and suggest that Bruce has been hiding him here the whole time? My brother is  _dead."_

Vale reeled a bit, then zeroed in on Tim. He didn't miss the venomous look in her eyes. "I'm very sorry, it wasn't my intention to offend you. Maybe  _you_  could tell me a bit about him—"

Dick opened his mouth to respond.

"—Timothy?"

Tim resisted the urge to grit his teeth. He was starting to see why they called this woman the Vulture Lady. She was trying to trip him up, get him to give details on Jason—when Tim wasn't supposed to have known him in the first place.

He shrugged sadly. "I never got to know Jason. I mean, I wish I had. From what Dick and Babs have told me, he was a pretty neat guy. Got into a lot more trouble than me—"

Dick and Barbara pretended to smile fondly.

"—but everybody liked Jason. He died a few months before I started working for Bruce."

"Mmm." The reporter raised an eyebrow. Her eyes lingered on Tim. He almost squirmed under her penetrating gaze, but he forced his facial features to remain still and neutral. Dismissive, even. After all, he was just a dumb, rich kid.

Her voice grated against his ears. "That's an interesting scar, Mr. Drake. Where did you get it?"

He froze.

The sound of laughter filled his head, but it wasn't coming from anyone in the room. His vision jilted, and he could feel cold air on his skin as the hairs on his arms stood straight up into the air. Tim's arms and legs buzzed with adrenaline, and he could feel the breath leave his lungs like he'd taken a serious hit to the stomach. Not to mention, he felt his gut clench. He only hoped he wouldn't vomit this time.

Almost against his will, his fingers rose to his face, and he touched the spot at the corner of his mouth. There was a long, white scar there. Curving upwards, like a half-smile. It was mostly faded; they'd tried everything short of skin grafts to get rid of it, but if someone looked closely, and the lighting was just right…

Tim could still remember that laughter. The feeling of a razor forcing its way through his protesting lips and into his mouth. The screams of his siblings…Bruce's shouts…the icy sharp feel of the razor at the corner of his lips…then a tug, a rip, and piercing pain. So much of it, bubbling out of him along with the hot, oozing blood…then the laughter…so much laughter…

"That's enough," Dick snapped. His older brother shot to his feet, and crossed his arms tightly over his chest. "Ms. Vale, we're going to have to ask you to leave.  _Now."_  Barbara and Tim followed his lead.

Vicki Vale stood, and waved her notepad. "Mr. Grayson, has Bruce Wayne ever abused you or anyone else underneath this roof? Is he the one responsible for Timothy's—"

Barbara lunged forward and seized the reporter's arm. Her eyes were narrowed, fierce. Tim almost flinched back. Her voice was a venomous hiss. "You want to know how he got that scar? Well, let me tell you. Last summer, Tim was abducted and tortured by the  _Joker._ We kept quiet about it because he was terrified enough without adding a media circus to the mix." Barbara bared her teeth. "Are you happy, now? Look at him, Vale."

Vicki's eyes latched onto him, wide and uncertain. It was the first crack in the confident composure he'd seen that afternoon. She softened a bit, and Tim knew that he didn't need to look into a mirror to see his pallid skin and the sheen of sweat on his forehead. The haunted eyes, the stiff jaw…he'd seen in the mirror plenty enough already.

"I hope you're happy," Barbara snarled. "The little dig about Jason Todd, the jabs about our family's status. Those are fine. I've taken worse, and so has Dick. But the  _second_ you try to scare Tim into giving you the answers you need for your little gossip column…" She paused to compose herself, taking a deep breath through her nose. Then, she sighed and blinked slowly. A tight smile wound up her face and she said, deadly calm. "So listen to me, you intrusive &!%$#. Bruce Wayne never laid a hand on any of us. Like Damian said, Bruce is a good man, and a far better person than the likes of you could ever hope to be. And with that last bit of information, I'm going to insist that you leave before I whistle for my little brother's Great Dane."

Vicki Vale blanched. "Let go of me, or I'll press charges."

Barbara released her arm with a flourish and a sneer. "Oh, no. Not charges!"

She stuck her forefinger and thumb into her mouth and took a deep breath.

Vicki Vale drew back and staggered out of the room. "This isn't over, Pennyworth!"

The intruding reporter threw open the front door, and rushed out. They watched through the window as she bolted down the drive to her waiting sedan. She lost one of her heels, but didn't even pause as she whipped open the passenger door and shouted something to her driver before diving inside.

They waited until the little black car was a dot in the distance, then Babs and Dick shared a glance.

They both sighed and collapsed down on the couch. Heads tipped back, hair fanned out, they stared at the ceiling with relieved smiles on their faces.

"Hate her," Barbara muttered.

Dick nodded. "Yup."

Tim turned away from the window, and shot his older siblings a confused glance. He opened his mouth to ask them a question, but before he had the chance, Jason, Steph, and Damian burst into the room. Alfred followed closely behind, arching his neck to peer out the window. When he was satisfied that the snoopy reporter had gone, he nodded with a smile, and excused himself.

Stephanie was smirking, and thumbing through a stack of papers while Damian and Jason stood by, arms crossed.

"Well. That was interesting," Steph said. She licked her thumb and flipped a few more of the pages.

"Y'know," Jason said, "The Ca—"

Barbara's finger shot to her lips, and Dick silently peeled himself off the couch. Tiptoeing, he made his way to the red armchair where Vicki Vale had been sitting just a few minutes before. The Batkids watched as his fingers trailed along the edges, and probed every seam and every corner. He jerked upright when his hand plunged in between the cushion and the back of the chair, and he yanked it back out again.

Pressed between his finger and thumb was a small microphone. A bug.

He raised an eyebrow at Barbara, then tossed it onto the floor. She bared her teeth, then stomped on the offending device hard until they heard a screech of feedback and a small crunching sound.

"Fool us once, shame on you, Vulture Lady," Barbara muttered. "Plant a mic twice, well…how stupid does she think we are?"

The others stared at the remains of the mic with slack jaws and wide eyes. Jason shook his head, unsurprised.

"Well," he said, "Like I was saying…we can press a few buttons and listen to everything up here from the Cave. So…we heard the whole thing."

"And we've got a few notes," Steph said, grinning.

Dick and Barbara shared a smile. "Oh?"

"For one thing." Jason put a hand over his heart. " _Thank_ you, for those sweet words about that Jason Todd boy. You really sold that whole 'he was our brother and we loved him' thing. I'm sure that Jaybird—may he rest in peace—appreciates the sentiment, wherever he is."

Steph rolled her eyes, and hip-checked him, giggling. "Shuddup, Jay." She turned serious, quickly, and got the same look on her face that she usually did when trying to copy Alfred's accent: 'proper and distinguished'. "And Babs, darling, you were  _fierce!_ In the future, I'd like to hear a lot more fire from you when you're talking to shifty reporter ladies. But Dickie, we'd like to hear more from you next time. You've got a lot to add, honey, so don't be afraid to rip into that lady the next time she pops by."

Her eyes glanced to the side, meeting Jason's. The corners of their mouths twitched, and when Jason snorted, they lost it, dissolving into giggles.

Tim sighed. "Right, well, thanks for the commentary, you guys." He rolled his eyes. "What would you rate us? Ten? Eight?"

"Eh." Jason waved his fingers. "Six."

" _Maybe_ six and a half." Stephanie bounced on the balls of her feet.

"Aw, that hurts, guys." Dick said.

Jason shrugged, and stepped over to Tim. He threw an arm around his shoulder, and Tim raised an eyebrow.

"Well," Jason said, "It'd be higher, but I wasn't all too pleased with Timbo's performance."

"Hh. What do you mean by that?"

Jason smacked him upside the head. " _Eduardo?"_

Tim rubbed his scalp, scowling as he shrugged Jason's arm off of him. Dick hurried to place his fist over his mouth, while Barbara tried very hard to keep a decent poker face. Damian smirked. Stephanie laughed.

"Guys!" Jason protested. "I'm _half_ Latino! Doesn’t mean I’m—that— How many times do I have to tell you? Just because I know a little Spanish—" He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Well,  _anyway,"_ Steph interjected. She waved the stack of papers in her hand. They flapped against each other, and Tim could make out a few color photos and bold print. "While we were down hiding in the Cave, Jason shed a little light on why you guys hate Vicki 'The Vulture' Vale so very much. And I gotta say, I can see why."

She passed over the papers to Tim, and Dick moved to grab them, but stopped, frowning.

Tim thumbed through them, scanning over the print, the photos, the headlines. They were all printouts of news articles and tabloid pages. Most—not all, but most—of them had been authored by Vicki Vale herself.

The pictures showed younger versions of Dick and Barbara in various outfits, poses, and settings. Outside the mall, wearing sunglasses and tshirts. Standing close to the gates of Gotham Academy in full uniform, clutching heavy-looking backpacks. A few were more candid: Barbara laid out by the swimming pool in the backyard getting a tan, Dick getting out of said pool.

How did Vale even get these pictures, anyway?

The headlines were even stranger:

BILLIONAIRE BRATS: A Look Inside the Lives of Bruce Wayne and His New Ward.

WHO'S THE REDHEAD?

LITTLE DICKIE AND GIRLFRIEND GO SHOPPPING

WAYNE GALA SHOWCASES W.E. INCOMPETENCE—JUST ASK GRAYSON

They seemed to get more and more troubling as he went, and Tim's eyebrows rose as he read them.

BABS PENNYWORTH—FIRST BRUCE, THEN DICKIE. WHO WILL SHE CHOOSE?

MILLIONS DIVERTED TO SECRET PROGRAM, W.E. EMPLOYEE SAYS

IS BRUCE WAYNE SKIMMING HIS COMPANY'S PROFITS?

WAYNE'S LITTLE SECRET—WHERE DOES HE GO EVERY NIGHT?

He shuffled the papers, then handed them to Dick. When it seemed like his eyebrows couldn't be any higher on his head, he managed to say, "Wow."

"Yeah," Dick said. He folded the stack in half, and rolled it as he clenched it in one fist. "She's always hated us, just as much as we hated her."

Babs scowled, crossing her arms. "Always tried to find a new angle on us. Made a lot of cash by dishing out fake news. Like, oh—what was that one story, Dick? Didn't she convince a ton of people that Bruce was stealing money from the company?"

"That wasn't the worst one. Remember the article that made Bruce out to be a pedophile? Convinced lots of people that you and he were dating for a while."

Barbara huffed. "Hate. Her."

Dick turned to the others. "Worst of all? She's an investigative reporter. It's her job to find out people's deepest, darkest secrets. She's gotten close a few times to figuring out  _the_  secret."

Tim's eyes widened. "You don't mean—"

"Our identities." Barbara made a face. "’Where the Wayne's  _really_ go every night.’"

That made them all clam up. They exchanged a few worried glances, before Dick shook his head. "And now," he said, "We think the Vulture Lady's trying to figure out where Bruce is. Where he  _really_ is. She kept trying to bait us into saying words like 'was', or to get us to slip and spill something that would give her hints to Bruce's location."

"That's why we had to send you out, Damian," Barbara added. "Sorry about that."

Damian was scowling now, and he clenched his fists. "I don't understand. Why don't we kill this Vale woman, and eliminate the problem, if she is such a threat? We can't afford to risk her finding out our secret."

Dick raised an eyebrow. "Do you really need an answer? I think you already know."

"Besides," Babs sighed. "We've asked. Bruce said no. So that's that."

"Very well." Damian waved a hand, and turned to leave. "If you will all excuse me, I'm going to go and resume my morning meditation. Afterwards, I assume that we need to begin readying ourselves for that tedious party tonight?"

"Pretty much," Barbara said.

"Great!" Steph smirked. "You guys go do that, and Jay and I will start popping popcorn and picking out a movie to watch tonight. I hate to say it, but…" She laughed. "Ah, never mind. I don't mind at  _all._ Have fun at the party tonight, suckas!"

She grabbed Jason's wrist, and started to tug him out of the room. But the sound of Barbara clearing her throat stopped her in her tracks.

"Actually, Steph," Barbara said, "You're coming with, tonight."

She froze. A look of utter betrayal spread over her face. "W-what?"

"Yep. Hate to say it, but…" Dick smirked. "Well, actually, I don't. You're going to join us ‘suckas’ at the gala tonight. Congrats."

Steph's jaw slackened, and her shoulders drooped. "B-but I'm legally dead, just like Jason…why…"

Barbara smiled. "Oh, we've found a way around that. Don't worry."

She stepped over to her little sister, and placed both hands on her shoulders. Then, she steered her towards the stairs. They walked away together, Steph shuffling zombie-like with a dull look in her eyes. Jason shrugged, and followed them up, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Tim glanced up at Dick.

"This is really gonna suck, isn't it?"

Dick pursed his lips. "Ah, Timmy. There's one important thing I've learned in all of my years of partying and gala-going."

"And what's that?"

His older brother nodded sagely, and clapped a hand over Tim's shoulder.

"They all suck, Timmy. They  _all_ suck."

 


	6. Gala-Going

 

"Hold still for me," Barbara coaxed. "Just a little…bit…long—there!"

She stood back and admired her work with crossed arms and a satisfied hum.

Stephanie grit her teeth and reached slowly up to pat her face and hair. The girls had spent the last two and a half hours getting dressed and done up for the gala. They'd locked the door and shouted at the boys whenever one of them had the gall to knock or ask them 'how the heck long does it take to smear that make-uppy stuff on your faces anyway?'

In all fairness? It had only taken them a little over twenty minutes to throw on their dresses and apply each other's makeup. Another thirty to do each other's hair. The rest of the time was devoted solely to Stephanie Brown's face.

When her hands had finished wandering over her face, she glanced up at Barbara, one eyebrow raised. "Y'know, it doesn't  _feel_ any different. I mean, besides the makeup, but you'll get that with any—"

Barbara smirked, and spun her sister around.

When Stephanie saw her reflection in the mirror, she squeaked. " _Ho-_ lee son of a b—"

Stephanie's blonde hair had disappeared, replaced by earthy brown curls done up behind her head, and spilling down one shoulder. Her cheekbones were more pronounced, and her nose, eyes and lips were all completely different shapes. As the girl gaped into the mirror, Barbara almost had to remind herself that this was Stephanie—and not a total stranger.

She squeaked again, reaching up to poke at one of the thick bronze ringlets. "I look like baby Angelina Jolie," she whispered, awestruck. Barbara laughed.

"Neat, right? Tim and I have been working on this little baby for months." She reached out and flicked Steph's chin. The image rippled, and for just a second, they could see Steph's real face shimmering behind the faux display. "It was Bruce's idea, way back in the day, but he never really got around to making a prototype. So… _ta-da!"_

Steph's now-green eyes widened. "It…it comes off, though. Right? Like, eventually? Cause I'll admit, this is kinda sorta awesome and all, but I liked being a blonde. And, it won't explode my face or anything, right?  _Right, Babs?_ I don't want my face to melt off or explode or…"

Barbara smiled, and rested her hands on her little sister's shoulders. "Steph. Breathe."

"Yeah," Steph gasped. "Okay."

"The cyber mask is designed to fit over your face, and disguise you perfectly. The tiny comb we slid into your hairline does the same thing. We could have done it for your voice, too, but that involves a few circuits fitting underneath your tongue, and Tim and I haven't really worked out all the water-proofing kinks yet." She sighed, and waved her hand. "But they  _won't_ explode, Steph. We tested them out before this, and they worked just fine."

"Before? What do you mean?"

Barbara smirked. "You know, Jay takes a  _lot_ of naps." She shot her sister a sideways glance. "Ever wonder how he'd look as Rupert Grint? Or George Clooney? Or maybe as the 1982 classic 'Swamp Thing'?"

Steph's eyes bugged out. "Pics. Or. It. Didn't. Happen."

She smirked, whipping out her phone. They scrolled through the images, snickering and giggling.

Of course, Jason hadn't been their first test subject. Barbara had tried it out on herself, first. But once she and Tim had determined that the cyber mask wouldn't short circuit and freeze—or worse, like Steph said,  _explode—_ they'd tiptoed up to Jason's room armed with cell cameras and evil grins.

"You know he'd kill you if he ever saw these?"

"I know."

"Well, maybe not  _you._ But definitely Tim."

"Yeah. I know."

A sharp knock on the door made both of them jump. Dick's voice filtered through, hesitantly. "Um…no offense, guys, but you've been in there for…a while. The boys and I just wanted to make sure you weren't, like, dead or anything. So…you guys okay in there?"

"Is Fatgirl dead?" Damian sounded almost hopeful.

Stephanie scowled. "Please," she whimpered.

Barbara shook her head. "No."

"I promise I'll only kill him a little bit."

"We're all finished in here, Wingnut!" Babs called out. She reached over to the counter and scooped up her clutch; she could definitely take a hint. The boys were done waiting, and it was time to go.

They stepped out of the bathroom, and were met by wide eyes. Tim clapped slowly, and Jason—fully suited up in his Red Hood uniform (sans helmet)—nodded with a grin. He wolf-whistled. "Niiiice, blondie. Or, do I call you ‘brownie’, now?"

"Oh, what?" Steph growled. "Something wrong with my real face?"

Everyone clammed up, and stared at Steph and Jason, waiting. Jason himself had gone very, very pale. "St-Steph," he stammered, "That's not what I—"

She tipped back her head and let out a good long laugh, wrapping her arms around her torso.

They all relaxed.

"Gotcha!" She gasped, then grinned at her boyfriend, eyes bright. "But it's  _totally_ awesome, right?"

Red Hood reached over, grinning. " _So_  cool. Is your real face, like, underneath that or something?"

"I guess!"

"And, it won't explode, right?" Jason's grin dipped.

Steph, still beaming, shook her head. "Nee-yope."

"You sure?"

"I'm, like, 87% sure."

Tim scowled, rolling his eyes. "It  _won't_ explode. Can we please head out, now?"

Damian was busy picking at the edge of his bright green tie. It had satin paisley designs scattered all over it, and there was no doubt Dick had picked it out for him. He'd probably done their little brother's hair, too. The kid had style, Barbara could give him that, but when it came to blending in socially as a normal ten-year-old boy… Well, to be honest, most kids didn't pick out their father's designer ties, or slick their own hair back with enough gel to drown a small elephant. "Much as I hate to say this, Drake has a point. Us men were ready to leave  _hours_ ago."

The corner of Dick's mouth quirked as he looped an arm around Barbara's waist. His lips brushed her ear as he muttered, "You don't need two hours to look gorgeous, babe. You're already there."

Barbara turned her face up. "Mmm. That so?" She fingered his tie with a smirk, and bit the edge of her lip. "Are you telling me the results weren't worth the wait?"

"Oh, I'm not saying that at all." His eyes lingered on hers, before glancing down and inspecting her clinging champagne-colored gown. The corner of his mouth climbed higher up his face. "In fact—"

"Oh my  _gosh,_ you two!" Tim groaned. Steph gaped, and clapped her hands over Damian's ears as Jason laughed.

"For the love of—!" she gasped. Damian squirmed in her grip. "There are children present!"

Barbara and Dick continued to gaze into each other's eyes—completely aware of what they were doing. Babs watched Dick's lips twitch as he tried to look lovestruck and keep from cracking up at the same time. Her lips pressed together as she tried to hold back a laugh.

"Are we embarrassing them?" Dick mused. He reached up and slipped one of her dress's straps off her shoulder. That was it—nothing else—but it was just enough to earn a terrified response. Jason's hand clapped over Damian's eyes as the three middle siblings glanced up at the ceiling, down at the carpet—or literally anywhere else.

Barbara laughed, and replaced the strap. "Alright, enough, Grayson. The kids are right; if we don't get a move on, we're going to miss the party."

"Would that really be such a bad thing?" Dick pouted.

She sighed, and lifted herself up onto the tips of her toes. "I'll tell you what—"

Barbara cupped her hand over Dick's ear as she whispered softly. His eyes widened a little, along with his smile. He turned his head, and interrupted her midsentence with a kiss.

A short kiss, thanks to the moans and groans from the audience, but still a kiss.

Barbara smiled, and squared her shoulders once Dick pulled away. "Alrighty, then, troops. You all know your assignments?"

"Sound off," Dick said. "Tim."

"Smile, shake hands, and promote the new WE youth outreach program."

"Good. Steph?"

Stephanie tossed her hair and rolled her eyes. Then, in her best Vlatavan accent, said, "My name is Luka Novak. I am ze Waynes' guest tonight. Zey are my 'ost family for ze semester while I feen-ish up my senior year of ze 'igh school in America."

She took a bow, and the others clapped politely.

"Good," Barbara conceded. "But you're still veering towards French at the end."

"Try to go for a mix of Russian, German,  _and_ French. Vlatava's language takes a little bit from all three." Dick gave her a thumbs up. "And Damian. What are we going to do tonight?"

Damian's scowl was dark and frightening as he spoke through a clenched jaw. "I am going to  _smile._ Even as the harpies descend and pinch my cheeks."

Dick nodded, more or less satisfied. "Okay. And what are we  _not_ gonna do?"

"I will not denigrate anyone in public," Damian sighed.

"And?"

The boy glowered, but gave in. "I will not punch anyone in the stomach again."

"There we go, Lil' D." Dick grinned, and clapped his youngest brother on the shoulder. "Now. Jay?"

Jason crossed his arms and let out a heavy sigh. If he'd had his way, Barbara knew that Jason wouldn't be anywhere near his uniform tonight. But, it was what it was. "Instead of binge-watching the  _Kill Order_ movies with a nice warm tub of popcorn on my lap, like I  _wanted_ to do," Jason grumbled. "I'll be keeping watch on the gala from outside, ready to hop in if anything happens. And if nothing does, then I'll sit out in the cold with no food, no soft seat, and definitely no blood spatter and gore."

Barbara raised her eyebrows. Jason backpedaled. "I mean, from the movies. There's a lot of—know what? Never mind."

"If you want, Jay, you can take a break at any time and grab yourself a burger or something," Dick said. The Red Hood nodded, mollified, but not satisfied.

"Fine. You nerds have fun at your party, then." He turned, and started down the hall. "If you need me, I'll be sitting on a roof somewhere.  _Yay."_

Barbara turned to the others, and smiled. "Right. Let's head out, then."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Fan out, mingle, and for the love of all that is good in this world, please just  _smile."_

Five fake grins curled up their faces as the Wayne kids dove into the crowd of Armani and Chanel. The Upper Class of Gotham turned their heads by way of response, tracking their movements over the edges of their champagne glasses with narrowed eyes. Pursed painted lips, and equally faux smiles. As she and Dick waded through, pausing a few times to shake hands, a few of them called out greetings and well-wishes for Brucie Wayne.  _Oh, I hope Bruce's trip goes well…well, it had better, for the sakes of the stockholders…tell me, darling, wher_ ever  _did you get that gown? I absolutely adore it!..._

As far as Barbara was concerned, socialites were ranked up near mob-bosses and supervillains on her crap list. At least the former two had  _some_ semblance of honor. But the 'high and mighty' of this city could be more two-faced than…well,  _Two-Face._

Barbara resisted the urge to scowl. She  _hated_ these parties.

And already, she could spot several different reporters bouncing through the throngs of the rich and powerful. Sometimes they paused with their notebooks or recorders to get a statement, other times they beelined it for the refreshment table set up near the back of the room. As soon as she and the others had stepped out of the limo outside, they'd been mobbed by a few eager-beavers fixing to get a headline for the tabloids.

" _Tell me, Miss!"_ one had shouted, shoving a recorder in her face.  _"What is it like to be on the arm of one of Gotham's most powerful business players?"_

Her mouth had opened and closed like a landed fish. But before she could tell the man off, Dick had come to her rescue.  _"I am_ so  _glad you asked,"_ he'd gushed,  _"It is an absolute_ honor,  _to be by this beautiful woman's side. I can't even tell you."_

It was the reporter's turn to flail. Barbara smirked at the memory.

"So," she muttered. Dick jumped a little at the sound of her voice, and turned his head to glance at her. "How long do we have to stay? I'm itching to hit the streets tonight…"

"Shh." His mouth quirked, as his smile turned into something more genuine. "Careful, Babs. I'm with you, though. But, as Bruce used to say—"

"We stay until our smiles fall off," they both said, then giggled. But in a way, it was true. By the end of the night, most times, their cheeks and jaws ached from so much grinning.

"Well! Look who it is!"

A pair of horn-rimmed glasses popped up just a few inches away. Their owner clutched a notepad and pen. He smiled shark-like in their direction, and said, "Ricky Grayson! Just the man I wanted to talk to tonight."

Dick smiled easily, pasting on his most diplomatic expression. Barbara resisted the urge to laugh, because it was so much like Bruce's classic 'deal-with-the-press' face.

"You must be Kenney Lloyd," he said, sticking out a hand. The reporter ignored it, and narrowed his eyes, never losing that unnerving smile.

"That's right, my boy. Now tell me, what's your opinion on the rise of crime in this city? What do you plan to do about it?"

"Straight to the questions then," Dick muttered. Then, he straightened. "Well, Mr. Lloyd, Gotham City's always been a magnet for criminals and rogues."

"That's right, but it seems like your city's seeing an unprecedented uptake in illegal activity. What do you make of that?"

Dick reached out and snagged two glasses of wine from a passing server's tray, and handed one to Barbara. He swirled his own thoughtfully. "True, true. We have been seeing a lot more crime in this city. But, Mr. Lloyd, we've had worse times in the past, and us Gothamites have managed to weather through those just fine."

"Yes, you're a hardy bunch, aren't you?"

Barbara pressed her mouth to the edge of the glass. The contents splashed against her closed lips as she watched the reporter warily, never taking a sip. Alcohol was something she and the others avoided like the Plague (well, Jason was the exception). Bruce had stressed teetotalism for years because, just like fast food, alcohol worked to undo everything they'd accomplished in training and out on patrols. To stay at your physical peak, there were sacrifices that had to be made, after all. Usually, they just opted for apple juice or ginger ale at these kinds of functions.

When Dick and Lloyd's discussion turned towards the GCPD, Barbara shook herself out of her thoughts and listened in.

"A lot of good your police force is doing, though, now that you've got a psycho serial killer running around."

"A psycho serial killer," Dick repeated thoughtfully, "This is Gotham, Mr. Lloyd. I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific."

"C'mon! You know exactly who I mean. The guys back at the  _Gazette_ are calling him the Triple B Killer. You know, cause he beats, burns, then butchers his victims?" Lloyd scribbled a few things down on his notepad. "They say he goes after redheaded chicks. Which means," He pointed his pen straight at Barbara as he shot Dick a knowing glance, "You'd better lock up your dame there if you don't want this guy getting a hold of her."

Barbara's mouth twisted a little at that. Dick patted her arm with a laugh. For the reporter's benefit, he seemed to be agreeing with him. Hence the condescending gesture. But Barbara could feel the hidden meaning in his touch,  _I hate him too, just don't react._

"Ah, well, nothing's going to happen to Babs here. Not on my watch," he said.

Lloyd seemed satisfied by that. "Well, then, tell me, Grayson. How do you and Wayne Enterprises intend to help solve the spike in crime? When the GCPD can't do its job, and the Bats aren't doing much to help, what does the city's most powerful corporation plan to do?"

Barbara giggled. "Whatever do you mean?" she asked. "The Bats are doing so much for this city, aren't they? I saw it on the news the other day."

Lloyd and Dick shared long-suffering looks.  _Women._

"Well, my dear," Lloyd said patiently, "Imagine this for a moment; a fire hydrant suddenly bursts open, and—wait, have you ever seen something like that?"

Dick's grip tightened a bit on her arm.  _Please don't kill him._

Barbara forced her expression to stay thoughtful and vague as she gestured with her hands, "Yes. It's when the water goes everywhere, right? In a big burst." She tittered. "Such a mess!"

"Right. Well, imagine trying to stop it up with a wine cork. It wouldn't fit, would it?"

"No," Barbara mused. "I suppose not. The water would just keep flowing everywhere!"

" _Right._ And that's what those Bats are really doing for this city. They're just trying to fix a problem that's bigger than they can handle. So that means it's up to us normal people to fix things."

"And fix them we will," Dick said, smiling. He placed his glass, still full, onto another passing tray. But luckily, Lloyd didn't seem to notice that his captive audience hadn't taken a single sip all night. "Wayne Enterprises is currently developing plans for a special youth outreach program. But, I'm afraid that's not really my area of expertise. If you'd like more information—"

His eyes glanced up and caught sight of Tim on the other side of the room. He was sitting at a table, both thumbs tapping away at his phone screen.

"I can point you in the direction of my little brother, Timothy Drake. He's spearheading the program."

"Wonderful. I'm going to go have a chat with him then." Lloyd clicked his pen and nodded to both of them. "Mr. Grayson. Miss."

He hurried off, and Barbara finally got the chance to let out the growl in her throat. "That greasy little—"

"Language, dear," Dick soothed. He took her glass from her and gave it to a server with a few mumbled apologies. Then, he escorted her towards the center of the room, where a few socialite pairs were spinning and swaying to the soft sound of cellos and violins. "I'm with you, but now's really not the time."

As he stepped out and offered her his hand, she huffed out a sigh. "I'm just tired of it all.”

He smirked. "May I have this dance?"

She sighed as her eyes roved up towards the ceiling. Her hand flopped into his. "But of course."

He pulled her into a twirl, and led her through a promenade or two, before pulling her close. She could feel his breath on the top of her head as she pressed her cheek into his chest. His heart was beating quickly, now. She could feel each pulse against her face. "I hate playing the air-head. Wanna take a turn?"

He laughed, and she could feel that too. "I wish I could, Babs."

They swayed there, together, and she pouted. "I hope the others are having a better time."

"Doubt it. Besides, they've been on their phones the whole time."

She glowered. "Lucky little—"

"Hey." He smiled, and spun her past Mr. and Mrs. Dumont (Mrs. Dumont had clearly had a little too much champagne). "This isn't all bad, is it?"

The song sped up. Dick extended his arm, flinging her outwards. Barbara swung her hips, and twirled as he pulled her back in close. He laughed as her curls fell over her face, and she felt his breath on her skin, but she couldn't help but smile. "It's a good thing I love you, Dick Grayson," she laughed, reaching up to brush the hair out of her eyes. "Or else a 'leech' like me would have skipped town years ago."

"Nah." He placed his hand back on her hip, and raised a cocky eyebrow. "You'd have stayed. For the nighttime thrills, if nothing else. Gotham city nights have a way of reeling us all in, don't they?"

Barbara smirked, and Dick swung her down into a dip. Her curls brushed the floor briefly, before he brought her back up again. "Don't I know it."

The cellos buzzed low through the room, and they swayed there together. Their feet stepped in time, perfectly mirroring, perfectly in sync. Barbara hated these parties, but when she was dancing with her partner, nothing else mattered. The gossip, the clouds of perfume, the too-loud chatter, and even the catty stares from the other socialites. It all just seemed to melt away.

Dick leaned down, and his breath whispered against her ear. "Gray tie, slicked hair, ten o'clock."

He turned them slowly, so that Barbara could get a good look over the top of his shoulder. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the man standing across the room, close to the wall. He matched Dick's description, and Barbara recognized him from earlier during the evening. This man had been watching them ever since they'd stepped through the doors.

"What's his deal?" she muttered, smiling as a crowd of glittering women shuffled past them.

"Don't' know. But I'm starting to get  _very—"_

A man's voice cut him off before he had the chance to finish. "No. Way. In. #&%%. Dick! Dick Grayson! Is that  _you?"_

Dick swung around to the man rushing over, and his mouth fell open. Barbara raised an eyebrow, and took a slight step back as the newcomer threw his arms around her partner and buried his face in Dick's shoulder.

The partygoers nearby reacted with slight gasps and exclaims. But as soon as Dick laughed, they rolled their eyes and went back to their wine and the latest gossip.

"Bryan?" Dick laughed again, and pulled back.

"Yeah, Dick! It's me!"

"Where've you been, man? How's life?"

"Life is good, life is  _good!"_ The stranger grinned. "But you'd know something about that, wouldn't you, rich guy?"

"Bryan…" Dick chided, grinning. The two men hugged again, both chuckling this time. Barbara raised an eyebrow, and cleared her throat.

Dick started, still smiling, then said, "Right. Right. Bryan, this is my girlfriend, Barbara."

Bryan's eyebrows shot up. He reached out and caught her hand, and swooped down to plant a soft kiss on her knuckles. "Pleasure to meet you, miss." Then, straightening, the corner of his mouth quirked. "But you gotta tell me. How'd a kinker like Dickie manage to land someone as gorgeous as you?"

"Oh, it's still a mystery." Barbara snickered, and glanced over at Dick. "Uh…kinker?"

Her partner reddened a little. "Heh. Circus slang. It means—ah, never mind. Babs, this is Bryan Haly. We grew up together."

"Haly?" She nodded, smiling. "Of course! Any relation to Jack Haly?"

Bryan's head bobbed, but his grin slipped a bit. "My old man."

He reached into his lapel pocket, and brought out a crumpled blue paper. As he handed it off to Dick, Barbara caught sight of it briefly. It was a flyer for the Haly's Circus. Dick's eyes scanned over it quickly, then he grinned. "No way! You're all back in town?"

"Well, not yet. I'm just the 24-hour man. Well, more like the hundred-hour man, the way things are going." Bryan perked up. "But the rest of the guys are just behind me! Should be here in about a week or so, if they don't hit any  _more_ bumps in the road."

He threw an arm around Dick's shoulder. "You  _have_ to come by! I know everybody'd be thrilled to see you again, Dickie! It's been way too long."

Dick's grin was a mile wide. "I think I will, B. I think I will."

Bryan saluted, then turned to leave. "I'll hold you to that, Grayson!"

"Don't let the door hit you on the way out!" Dick called, laughing.

"Ha!"

As soon as he'd gone, Barbara let out a laugh. "Small world, isn't it?"

"Wow." Dick shook his head, still grinning ear to ear.

"How'd he get in here, anyway? I thought you had to have some sort of special invitation to get into these galas?"

"Bryan's the circus 24-hour man. He travels ahead of the group to put up the arrows, make sure the lot's ready to go..." He saw her raised eyebrows, and chuckled. "Sorry. He's basically the advertiser. Spreads the word, and all that. Back in the old days, Jack Haly was a big wig in Gotham, so he's basically got a standing invitation to all sorts of these things." He nodded, and his smile dimmed a bit. "Pretty great, if you want to get the upper class to come slum it at the circus."

She reached up and put a hand on his cheek. "Well, I think you should go. When they do end up rolling into town. You haven't seen them since…well, the accident, right? It's been years."

"Yeah." Something wistful gleamed in Dick's eyes. "It has been."

"Well, then it's settled. If you want to go run away with the circus for a day or two," she said, smirking, "Then I think I can pick up your slack,  _Bats."_

The last word was whispered underneath her breath, but Dick was close enough to catch it. He laughed, and pressed his forehead to hers. "Hey. You think I'd run away and not take you with?"

"Oh, you wouldn't dare." She closed her eyes, smiling.

"We've almost made it through this thing. After tonight, what say you and me hit the streets all on our own?" He planted a kiss on her forehead. "We can leave the kids at home with a movie."

"We'll see, Grayson. We'll see."

 

* * *

 

**TIM –** will someone kill me now?

**DAMIAN –** It would be a pleasure Drake.

**JASON –** I can see you from here, Timbo. :D See me up through the skylight? You might have to squint.

**JASON -**  Try and lighten up a little, yeah? Lots of lovely ladies lookin' your way. ;)

**TIM –** shut up.

**JASON –** How's MY lovely lady? ;) ;) ;)

**STEPH –** Oh, go #%*& urself Jason

**JASON –** Language! D's on this thread too. D:

**DAMIAN –** I assure you that I have not only heard far worse from my grandfather's assassins, but have myself used many forms of vulgarity when the need arises. So, I concur with Brown.

**STEPH –** Thank you, Gremlin. Also pls learn how to text. I worry for you

**DAMIAN –** Oh, is that right, LUKA?

**STEPH –** What??? You lookin' to start something short stack?????

**TIM –** guys.

**JASON –** How bout you, D? Anyone catch your eye? ;)

**DAMIAN –** What is the purpose of placing a semicolon and a parenthesis so close together, anyway? I do not understand.

**STEPH –** That's it. i have given up on the next generation X(

**STEPH -**  Hold up. incoming

**TIM –** she okay?

**JASON –** Yup. Cornered by that old lady wearing a bird on her hat. How you holding up, Timbo?

**TIM –** this whole thing sucks. i can't think of anything worse.

**JASON –** Yeah…well…I died once, y'know. :/

**JASON –** So suck it up.

**TIM –**  yeah. complaining to the wrong guy, aren't I?

**JASON –** Crowbars, Timbo. Need I go on?

**JASON –**  AW! D's talking to this little blonde chick. Think she likes him :)

**TIM –** that's not gonna last

**STEPH –** Alright! I'm back. That sucked

**TIM –** wish *I* could tell people I 'speak not a lot of the english'

**STEPH –** ):P

**STEPH –** That's me sticking my tongue out at you Tim. Jealous much???

**TIM -** as if. anyone seen Dick and Babs?

**STEPH –** He means you Jay

**JASON –** Talking to a reporter. Babs looks like she's gonna blow.

**JASON –** Ooh. IDK what that guy just said, but I'm glad I'm not him right now.

**STEPH –** Speaking of: where's Vulture Lady????????????

**DAMIAN –** I am rejoining the conversation.

**STEPH –** Oh thank goodness. It was so bland without you, Dami

**DAMIAN –** I am not so young that I don't understand sarcasm, Brown. Even in nonverbal form.

**JASON –** Hey, D! What's the 411 on your little blonde friend? ;D

**STEPH –** His little what?!?!?

**DAMIAN –** Females are such simpleminded creatures. That is all I have to say on the matter.

**STEPH –** Watch yourself, kid. Just saying

**TIM –** heaven help us all when he hits puberty.

**JASON –** XD

**STEPH –** XD

**DAMIAN –** What the #&%% does XD stand for?

**TIM –** nobody tell him

**DAMIAN -** %$&$ you, Drake.

**JASON –** Reporter headed your way, Timbo.

**TIM –** where's a sniper when you need one?

**JASON –** Yeah, good luck with that :)))

Tim glanced up from his phone, and hurriedly tucked it into his suit pocket. A man wearing horn-rimmed glasses popped out from between two socialites, and brightened when he saw Tim. "Mr. Drake! Is it alright if I ask you a few questions about your new program?"

Tim fought back a grimace, and pushed out his chair to stand up. "Uh. Yeah. I—"

"Ah-ah, Lloyd! This one's mine."

He looked up, and his jaw slackened. The woman sashaying toward him was in a very tight fiery red dress. It matched her hair and manicured nails, and she was, by far, the brightest person in the room. Something like terror curdled in the pit of Tim's stomach.

"Mr. Drake," Vicki Vale crooned, "I don't think we got to finish our conversation earlier."

The other reporter—Lloyd—skulked off, tail between his legs, to go and find another socialite to bother. Vale stepped closer, and leaned in a little so that her low-cut neckline was on full display. Tim jerked his eyes upwards, and cleared his throat.

In his pocket, his phone started blowing up.  _Stupid Jason and his stupid vantage point…_

"What's there to talk about?" he asked.

"Well, for starters," She smirked, and placed a hand on the curve of her hip. "Tell me about yourself, Timmy. I can call you Timmy, can't I? Or would you prefer Tim?"

His jaw tightened. "My friends call me Tim. My family calls me Timmy.  _You_ can call me Mr. Drake. Or Timothy, if you want."

Vale's eyes narrowed. "I see. Well, like I said, I want to hear all about Timothy Drake. So for starters, what do you like to do in your free time?"

He sat back down at the table, and the reporter followed suit, dragging out a chair of her own. Maybe it was un-gentlemanly, not to pull out a seat for her. At the moment, though, Tim couldn't have cared less. Over the top of the fancy centerpiece, he told her, "I do a lot of PR for Wayne Enterprises, and help to coordinate certain programs that—"

She threw up a hand. "Nuh-uh.  _Free time,_ Timothy."

Tim scowled. "In my free time? I sleep."

Which was technically true. In order to get through the night, Tim took a lot of timed power-naps throughout the day. They usually lasted about twenty minutes or so. Thirty, if he wanted to be generous.

"Is that all? No  _other_ night time activities?"

His eyes narrowed. So that's how she wanted to play it? Fine.

Tim let out a bark of laughter, and leaned his elbow on the table. "If you're asking about my love life, Vicki—I can call you Vicki, can't I?—then, I should warn you. I'm not exactly the kind to kiss and tell."

She pursed her lips, but didn't reply.

"That  _is_ what you meant, right?" Tim's eyebrows crept up his forehead. "Cause I mean, what else is there to do at night? Besides these $&%# parties, anyway."

"My sources tell me you like to go on runs at night."

Her sources were made up, then. Tim ran on a track in the Cave.

"Lady, I've never run a day in my life." He laughed. "I only run if something's chasing me."

"Is that so." She pulled out her phone, and her fingernails clicked against the screen as she typed. "Well, then, on that note, tell me about last year. When you were kidnapped by the Joker?"

"No comment."

"Fine. How about when your older brother was kidnapped by the Joker?"

She was definitely fishing. Tim put his other arm up on the table. "Dick's never even met the Joker."

"I wasn't talking about him."

"Well, I don't have any other big brothers. Next question?"

Vale looked up from her phone. Her eyes roved over him, and the hairs on the back of Tim's neck prickled. "Your brother's girlfriend is a smart girl, isn't she?"

"Smartest lady I know."

Something like triumph lit up on the reporter's face, and she leaned forward. "Really? You'd never guess it, the way she acts at these parties. So far, I've seen the 'gracious hostess' Miss Pennyworth, the 'fire and steel' Miss Pennyworth, and now the 'stupid slut' Miss Pennyworth. So, tell me, Timmy. Which girl is the real one?"

He crossed his arms, and ignored the heat bubbling in his chest. No one got to talk about his sister like that, but now wasn't the time, and this wasn't the place to make a scene. "You  _really_ do not like her, do you?"

"Hmm. Pardon?"

"Someday, I'll have to ask her about that. But for now, here's what  _I_ have to say." He leaned in, and schooled his expression into something calm, but stern. "Barbara's what we call a human being. She's got a lot of different sides to her, and each of those sides fits whatever situation she finds herself in at the moment. Now, I realize a one-dimensional harpy like you might have a hard time understanding that, but I'm sure if you rack your brains long enough, it'll come to you."

Nearby, the orchestra switched songs, and the dancers in the center of the room bowed to each other. Then, they resumed their twirling and gliding. He could already spot Dick and Babs dancing in their midst. Tim pretended to watch them, and ignore Vicki Vale's reddening face. Out of the corner of his eye, he could almost see steam coming out her ears.

"Alright, then, Timmy. Next question." She reached across the table and snagged his wrist, forcing him to return his attention to her.

"Is it true that Bruce Wayne has been dead for the past fourteen months?"

Tim paused. "W-what?"

Vale smiled, now, victoriously. "Is. Bruce. Wayne. Dead?"

He leaned back in his chair, and slipped on hand into his pocket. "No," he said, feigning surprise. "Why the #&%% would you say that?"

His fingers tapped the screen.

**TIM –** 911

"I  _say_ that, because it's true, right? WE has been covering up his death for the past year, now."

"No. Bruce is in the Amazon with a research team. They're trying to find—"

"New pharmaceutical plants, or whatever." She waved a hand, rolling her eyes. "I already know the cover story, Timothy. Now tell me the truth."

"I  _did."_

"No. I want the real sto—"

Tim flew forward and hit the table face-first. A loud boom shook the room, and a surge of heat hit his back. He groaned, head pounding. Socialites and reporters screamed as shots cracked through the air.

"Everybody get on the floor! Now! Now! Now!"

Tim's head jerked up, and he saw Vicki Vale scurry towards the dance floor. The crowd had gathered there, and huddled together, shrieking and crying as the assailants marched in. Tim glanced across the room and spotted Steph and Damian. As soon as they saw him, they both nodded. Steph slipped out of the room quietly, and Damian ducked underneath one of the tables.

Tim slid out of his chair and past the linen tablecloth. Thankfully, no one else had thought to hide underneath, either, leaving him free to rip off his tie and suit jacket. He fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, and gave silent thanks that he'd thought to wear the Red Robin suit underneath his tux.

As he slid the mask over his eyes, he blinked once to calibrate its sensors. Then, he smiled.

Whoever these people were, they'd just picked the  _wrong_ party to hijack.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dick and Barbara got to their knees with the rest of the partygoers, and exchanged a glance. With that one look, both asked each other the silent question:  _Do you have your suit?_

Barbara grimaced. Dick shook his head.

_%$ &# _ _it._ Where was Jason when you needed him?

Their captors circled the crowd of the rich and famous like a school of hungry sharks. They grinned at their prey, and every now and then, lunged towards them, and laughed at their screams. Barbara counted twelve gunmen, all dressed in black and toting automatics. Their fingers were twitching on the triggers, and she decided that these men were ready to go off at any moment.

But it was their bosses that really worried her.

Garfield Lynns. Firefly.

Drury Walker. Killer Moth.

And, of course, a big player to reign them both in: Edward Nygma. The Riddler.

"Rrriddle me this, ladies and gentlemen!" Nygma shouted, as he swaggered around his captives. "Sometimes I'm young, but sometimes I'm old. I'm rolling in cash and dripping with gold!  _What_ am I?"

Next to her, Dick made a small sound at the back of his throat. "Seriously?" he muttered. "He's not even trying."

"You there, sir!" Riddler swung his staff, and hit Mr. Gates in the nose. The man cried out and toppled sideways into his wife, who shrieked. "Can you tell me the answer?"

Mr. Gates looked up at the man in green and stuttered, "I-is it…uh, investments?"

The Riddler paused. Nearby, Firefly and Killer Moth shook their heads and sighed. Even the goons seemed to freeze a bit. Barbara bit back a cry, and watched Nygma—red faced and breathing hard—bend down and grab Mr. Gates by the throat.

"No, good sir," he hissed. With a jerk of his wrist, his scepter slid into two parts. The rod clattered to the floor, leaving the question mark in Nygma's hand—with a gleaming blade poking out the end. "That's  _not_ correct."

Mrs. Gates screamed as she was splattered with her husband's blood. Barbara clapped a shaking hand over her mouth as her eyes darted towards the skylight, and around the room. Where was Jason? Where were the others?

Were they safe?

"The  _answer,_ ladies and gents…" Riddler threw up his hands, still gripping the dripping knife. "Is all of you!"

A few in the crowd whimpered and shrieked, and everyone seemed to hunker down lower.

"Now," Firefly said, brandishing his flamethrower, "A few of our men are going to come around the room and collect your valuables. Watches, necklaces, bracelets, earrings…if it glitters, it goes in the bags. Capiche?"

A few thugs broke from the ranks, holding large black sacks. They started at the edges, ripping necklaces off the ladies, and nudging the men's heads with their guns as they fumbled with their wristwatches and cufflinks. While they worked, Riddler kept on riddling.

"Gary's father has five sons: Adam, Barry, Chris and Dale…what's the name of the fifth?"

"What starts with E, ends with E, and has only one letter? And no, folks, it's not the letter E!"

"What kind of coat is always wet when you put it on?"

They were easy riddles, the kinds that you'd ask children. Barbara mentally rattled off the answers;  _Gary, Envelope, Coat of paint, stamp, potted plant, potato…_

On and on, he kept asking and laughing. Killer Moth and Firefly patiently circled the crowd while their henchmen gathered their belongings. Nygma seemed to be enjoying the crowd's fear.

One of the thugs jammed the barrel of his gun into the back of her head. "I'll take those earrings, lady."

Dick glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, but she tapped his knee, then reached up to unfasten the jewelry. Better a few gems in the bag than a bullet to the brain. Besides, with no batarangs on her, she didn't have much choice but to comply.

"Alright, then, everyone! Time…for the lightning round!" Riddler spun, waving his blade. A wicked grin stretched up his face as he snatched a teenage girl from the huddled group. The girl screamed, then choked as Nygma wrapped his arm around her neck.

"Lindsay!" A woman screamed.

"M-mom!"

"Listen up, sweetie!" Nygma pressed his mouth close to the girl's ear. "I'm gonna give you a riddle. If you answer it, then you can go back to mommy and daddy there on the floor. Good? Good.  _But!_ If you guess  _wrong…"_ He chuckled, and slid the knife across her throat. Not deep enough to cut, but enough that her eyes bulged, and she let out a strangled cry.

"So here it is," Riddler crooned. "Poor people have it…Rich people need it…If you eat it, you'll die. What is it?"

The girl struggled in his grasp, panting. "I don't know!" she cried. "Please…please! I don't—I don't know!" She sobbed, mascara trails streaming down her cheeks. The Riddler sighed, then pressed the blade to her trachea. The girl let out a sound that was half whimper, half scream.

"Oh well. I've got a dozen more to—"

"Nothing!"

The room went dead quiet as Barbara slowly rose to her feet, hands out in a placating gesture. A few of the thugs shouted, and turned their weapons towards her, but Riddler waved them off with wide eyes and a slack jaw. He cocked his head.

"What was that?"

Barbara pulled herself up to full height, and said, slowly, "Poor people have it. Rich people need it. If you eat it, then you'll die. The answer…is 'nothing'."

Nygma's face lit up. "What's your name, girl?"

She swallowed. "Barbara. Barbara Pennyworth."

"Well, Barbara, Barbara Pennyworth…" Riddler's grin widened. He shoved the girl back down onto the floor, and she collapsed into her mother's arms with a sob. The villain's attention was now solely on the red-headed girl standing in the center of the huddling crowed. "Step right up!"

"What?"

He pointed at the ground by his feet. "Come. Here.  _Now."_

A gun barrel jammed into the small of her back. Barbara bit her tongue to keep herself focused; that particular spot was a bit sensitive. On the ground next to her, Dick paled. "Babs, wait—"

One of the thugs pistol-whipped him across the jaw. He cried out and hit the floor.

"Dick!" she cried.

Blood dribbled off his lips, and he smeared his hand across his mouth. "I'm okay," he wheezed. "Do what he says."

Barbara squared her jaw, and stepped over hands and feet and dresses as she made her way over to Nygma. He grinned, watching her pick her way through the crowd with watchful eyes. When she'd finally made it to the spot he'd indicated, he laughed deep in his throat, and raised the blade. The point rested against her chest, poking a little bit through the fabric of her dress.

"Very nice." Riddler leered. "Now, we'll continue the game. I really do hope you guess right; it'd be a shame to ruin that perfect chest—I mean, dress."

Barbara glowered. "Okay, then. What's the riddle?"

Nygma smirked. "Eager, aren't we? Fine. Here goes…" He waved his free hand, and bared his teeth. "My first is a creature whose breeding is unclear. My second, a price you must pay. My whole can be found in the river of Time and refers to events of today. What am I?"

She turned her head slightly, and caught Dick's eye. His fingers were still pressed to his swelling lip, and his eyes widened.

Riddler pushed the blade in deeper. "Ah, ah! No lifelines allowed!"

Barbara straightened. Then, she looked the Riddler right in the eye. "The answer is 'a current'."

His eyes widened slightly, and so did his grin.  _"Very_ good! Now. A prisoner is told 'If you tell a lie we will hang you; if you tell the truth we will shoot you.' What can he say to save himself?"

She swallowed, and considered for a few seconds. Best to pretend to struggle with the answer. Batwoman would know right away; Barbara Pennyworth wasn't supposed to be all that bright. Finally, "He'll say, 'You will hang me'."

Vicki Vale, huddled with the others, caught her eye. The reporter's jaw was as slack as her eyes were wide.

Nygma glanced at Firefly, then Killer Moth. "I like this one, boys! Can we keep her?"

Firefly growled. "You know what the boss said."

"True, true. But consider this." Riddler twirled a finger in the air. "I'm willing to bet she belongs to someone important, right? Someone who would pay through the nose to keep her safe?"

Killer Moth hummed thoughtfully. Firefly sighed.

"One more riddle, sweetheart." Nygma's foul breath hit her in the face as he leaned in and whispered, "What's in a man's pants that you won't find in a girl's dress?"

She glowered, then spat, " _Pockets."_

His chin flew up as he laughed, and she took the opportunity to stomp down hard on his foot. With her stiletto heel, it  _had_ to hurt. He cried out, staggering backward. His face turned the color of Vicki Vale's dress, and with a jerk of his wrist, he flung his knife.

She spun, narrowly dodging the blade, and hit the floor. Riddler scooped up the metal shaft of his scepter, then marched toward her. Barbara gasped as he planted a boot against her chest, and pushed down. All the breath left her lungs, and she could hear a few people in the crowd screaming or shouting. She could even pick out Dick's voice.

Riddler raised the shaft above his head. He was going to bludgeon her to death right here, right now.

And, unless she wanted to blow her family's cover, there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

"On second thought, boys," Nygma snarled, "I think this one dies first."

His arm jerked, but before he could bring the weapon down on her head, a bang split through the air.

There was a spray of blood, and Riddler screamed. He dropped the rod, and clutched his seeping hand to his chest. Then, he fell to his knees.

"Seriously?"

Everyone turned to the gaping hole at the end of the room, where the villains had made their entrance only a few minutes before. The Red Hood was standing on top of the pile of rubble. One hand held up a pistol, still smoking. The other held a half-eaten bacon burger.

"I step away for  _one minute!"_ Jason growled. "And it all goes to $#!%. Can't a man just eat his burger in peace?"

Firefly pulled the trigger, and sent a stream of leaping flames Hood's way. "What are you idiots just standing there for?" he demanded. "Shoot 'im!"

Jason rolled forward off the rubble, then came up shooting. Thugs went down with screams of pain, and Barbara crossed her fingers and prayed that Red Hood had loaded his guns with the rubber rounds this time.

In all the confusion, Dick had made his way to her side, and wrapped his hand around her arm. "Babs," he gurgled (his mouth was still bleeding), "You okay?"

"Fine," she panted. "Where—?"

Her question was answered before she even had the chance to finish. Batgirl and the Robins leapt out of the hole in the wall and into the fray. Batarangs joined the bullets, and Dick and Barbara started working to move the socialites and reporters back, out of the line of fire.

Batgirl jumped up, and whooped as she landed on a thug’s face. He went down, bullets spraying from his gun. Robin threw a bolo and took out two men before leaping to shove Tim out of the way of Firefly's inferno. Both boys collapsed just underneath the spray of flames.

"Watch it!" Damian snarled.

"Gee," Red Robin muttered. "Thanks."

Killer Moth bellowed and fired off his weapon. No flames, no bullets, just stream after stream of white slime. Batgirl cartwheeled out of the way just in time, then popped up grimacing. She raked her fingers through her hair, and huffed when they came away covered in the sticky stuff. "Oh,  _come_ on!"

Red Robin's arm darted out, striking Moth's neck, and the villain went down in a heap. But the fight was far from over. Firefly's weapon caught the edge of Damian's cape, and Robin cried out as he threw himself rolling onto the ground. The thugs that weren't unconscious were closing in on the partygoers. Boxing them in, so that no one could escape. Barbara glanced at Dick, then let out a shrill whistle. In the confusion, no one noticed.

Except Batgirl.

Steph looked up sharply, then nodded. With a flick of her wrist, she flung a 'rang in their direction. It lodged in the floorboards at Barbara's feet. Before anyone could see, she bent and yanked it out, then hid it in the folds of her skirt.

Riddler's hand wrapped around Robin's throat. He sneered, and banged Damian against the wall. "Where's mommy and daddy, little bird? Did they call in sick?"

Tim made to move to his little brother's rescue, but he didn't have the chance. Damian's legs shot up and wrapped around Riddler's waist. He jerked Nygma forward, and slammed his forehead into the villain's. Riddler went down with a shout, and stayed down when Damian planted a boot on his face.

Robin scowled. "Imbecile."

"Freeze, you little twerps!" Firefly roared. Around the crowd, the thugs raised their weapons. Socialites screamed as they looked down the barrels of their captors automatics. "Or the fat cats get it!"

A woman screamed next to Dick's ear. "We're all going to die!"

"No!"

"I have a family!"

"I'm too young to die!"

The screams and pleas were so loud that Barbara winced. Firefly wasn't as moved. He fired off a stream of flames above the crowd's head. She could feel the heat wash over her, and shrunk down with the rest of them. "I said  _stop,_ Bat-freaks! Hands in the air, or I throw a barbeque!"

The four Bats scowled and slowly lifted their hands above their heads.

"Good," Firefly snapped. "Now. We came for one big reason, and one reason only. And it wasn't to rob these moneybags blind." He twisted something on his flamethrower, and a blue flame flickered to life at the tip. "We're here to send a message, to all you folks who think you control Gotham just because you've got the green to back it up."

Firefly reached into his pocket, and pulled out a scrap of paper. "Know what this is, folks? This comes straight from above! Direct orders. And here's what it says:" He shook out the paper and cleared his throat. "You're all free to go!  _Except…_ for three fine gentlemen who my employer has hand-picked to roast tonight."

A few worried squeals from the crowd made Barbara and Dick flinch.

"First up," Firefly announced. Barbara was certain that the man was smirking behind his mask.

" _Richard Grayson."_

Jason, Steph, Tim and Damian moved to step forward, eyes wide. But Dick waved a hand, his expression stone hard. He stood up slowly.

"Dick," Barbara cried, reaching up to grab his hand.

He looked down at her and shook his head. "It's okay, Babs."

" _No,"_ she wailed, but just as a show. It was his turn to make his way over the quivering socialites and cowering reporters. Barbara's lips pressed together; she knew he had a plan. She could see it in the set of his shoulders.

She only hoped that their brief exchange was convincing enough to the crowd.

The blue spark at the end of the flamethrower grew brighter, and Firefly chuckled. "Any last words, rich boy?"

Dick, hands up, just glowered at the villain.

"Fine, then, kid. Have fun in—"

A loud crash cut him off, and glass rained down from the ceiling. Barbara glanced up, shielding her eyes, and gaped. A figure crashed through the skylight. He—it was definitely a he—landed on the Rogue's shoulders, and leapt off, twisting his body. Too quickly—far too quickly to see—a knife flew from the newcomer's fist and sprouted from Firefly's neck.

Garfield Lynns went down with a strangled croak.

"No," the stranger said. His voice was monotone and flat. As he stood, Barbara got a better look at his uniform; deep earthy brown and black material—probably Kevlar, but she couldn't be sure—and brass armor and embellishments. Dick's rescuer had a matching hood with a pair of orange glass goggles that stared unblinking at the crowd. "All of you leave. Now."

The thugs growled, and opened fire. The strange man leapt into the air, avoiding the spray of bullets that cracked against the floor, and flung both arms out to either side. A series of whishing sounds grated through the air, and every gunman fell to the ground with blades in their throats.

The partygoers screamed. In one body, they ran for the doors. Barbara pushed her way through the sea of socialites and grasped Dick's suit. He glanced back at her, eyes wide. Lynns' blood was spattered across his forehead, and between that and the blood on his lips and chin, he looked like #&%%.

When the crowd had gone, the Bats and the newcomer were the only ones left standing.

Barbara, blinked, and glared at the stranger. She took a stride forward, and whipped out her batarang. It clicked as it fully extended, and she pressed it to the man's trachea. "Who are you?" she demanded.

He turned his head, and fixed those staring amber eyes on her. The brass embellishments on his hood were…almost birdlike. She saw a point, like a beak, and two curving wings on the goggles that reminded her of a horned owl's stern stare.

"I am no one. I am everyone," he intoned, like a mantra. She could feel the vibrations of his low voice shiver up the metal of the 'rang. Barbara eyed the line of blades strapped across his chest warily. Then, she saw the crest up towards his shoulder: an owl in flight. He continued to stare her down, and she had the brief thought that  _maybe_ she'd picked the wrong man to threaten. "I came to warn you."

Jason cleared his throat. "So…this guy's allowed to ice the bad guys, huh? Why's that?"

"A necessity," the stranger said. He never took his eyes off Barbara. "Sometimes you hafta stick 'em before they stick you."

His voice had loosened into a rough Bowery accent. The hand holding the batarang to his throat dipped a bit as Barbara's eyes widened.

Dick snapped his fingers, and pointed down at Firefly, who was still gurgling in his own blood. Tim straightened, then hurried over to check the man's vitals. Grayson glared up at the owl man, and said, "Warn us about what?"

The owl man looked back and forth at each of them, then took a step back. "The Bats of Gotham are in danger, Grayson," he said, voice returning to its original monotone. "Watch yourselves. Or die."

He grasped Barbara's hand, and eased the batarang away from his throat. She could feel something slide into her palm, between her skin and the 'rang's metal, but didn't react as she put her hand down. Then, all of them flinched back when the stranger's hand shot up into the air. He threw something to the ground—a smoke pellet—and it burst open, clouding the room with billowing silver smoke.

"Beware the Court of Owls," the man said. Barbara coughed, and reached out for her siblings. She could hear them shuffling around in the dark, calling out softly for each other. But her hands grasped nothing but curling wisps of smoke.

"That watches all the time. Ruling Gotham from a shadow perch, behind granite and lime."

"Babs?" Dick's voice cried out. " _Babs?"_

"They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed."

"Dick?" She took a step back, right into a wall. But then, the wall moved. She let out a cry, and her siblings gasped, calling out for her in earnest.

Two gloved hands wrapped around her wrists, holding her in place. Barbara could hear the owl man's voice rumble next to her ear as he mumbled, just for her to hear, "Protect them, B-girl. And read the note."

The pressure on her wrists disappeared. And, just like that, he was gone.

Barbara looked down at her hand. A small slip of paper poked out from behind the batarang. She slipped it out, and eased it open along the fold.

There, scrawled in familiar black writing was an address in the Narrows. Below that, the words:

_If you ever need to talk, meet me back home._

_Help me, Bgirl. Please._

— _CR_

Tears leaked from Barbara's eyes. She pressed a shaking hand to her lips.

"Speak not a whispered word of them or they'll send The Talon for your head."

Barbara sobbed.

 


	7. Mandatory Family Fun Time

 

"Alright…spuh…spill…"

Dick groaned as he bent his elbows, and touched his chin to the cold Cave floor. He kept his back stiff and straight, and eased himself back up slowly. His biceps were burning. Pushups would have been a breeze normally, but Babs was laid out on his back, arms crossed behind her head. She shifted a little, and Dick's arms both spasmed.

"Hmm?" Barbara stared at the ceiling. "What do you mean?"

He pushed himself down again, grunting. Then back up, and back down. Over and over, as fast as he dared. "Well...for one th-thing, dear…ah…you're not…screaming at me…huh…"

"Psh. I never scream, Wingnut."

"Duh-do too. Really…helps…" He gasped. His arms were screaming. "Aren't…eh…you gonna…tuh…tell me to…stuh-stop bein'…sucha…wimp…"

"Oh. That." She huffed, then took a deep breath. Dick braced himself.

"That's right, Grayson!" she barked. "Are you Batman or Batbaby? I wanna see ten more! Ten more! Ten more!  _Come on!"_

He readjusted and let out a grunt that sounded a bit like a laugh. "Atta girl."

Barbara flipped herself over, crouching on his back, and Dick almost toppled sideways from the sudden movement. She tapped frantically at his shoulder, and kept shouting. "How many, Grayson? How many?"

"Fuh…five hundred…ah…twen'y-three."

"My grandmother can do more reps than you, may she rest in peace!" Barbara smacked his shoulder, and growled. But Dick had the feeling that if he were to look up at her face right then, he'd see her grinning. "I wanna see one arm, Pixie Boots, and I wanna see it  _now!"_

She scootched up to perch on his shoulders. He grunted, and yanked one arm up and behind him, resting his fist just below his shoulder blades. His remaining arm shook like mad, and Dick let out a small whimper of pain.

"Come on, Pixie Boots! Faster, faster, faster!" Barbara snorted, and Dick could tell she was enjoying this. Especially using that old nickname—the one she used to always tease him with. Besides, he knew she'd stop if he really  _had_ reached his limit. "Wanna know what that word means? It means  _more fast!"_

He grunted as he went down, then back up, then back down. "Don't…call me that...eh…Babs…"

"What's that,  _Pixie Boots?_ " A hand fluttered up to her ear. "I can't hear you over the sound of twenty more reps!"

"Heh…" he squeaked.

Dick could hear Jason's laugh echoing through the cave. He was somewhere on the other side of the training hall, probably benching his own weight. He always hogged the weights during workout sessions. "Ah," he called out, "The sweet sounds of weakness."

"So nice to see the grownups getting along, right?" Steph chimed in from a few feet away. There was a wooden smack, and she cried out. "Dangit, Damian! I wasn't ready!"

Damian raised his staff, and scowled. "That is the entire  _point_ of a sneak attack, is it not? You must always be ready, because your enemy will strike when you least expec—ow!"

Stephanie whacked Damian in the stomach with her own staff, and the two got back to leaping, twisting and attacking each other. Jason laughed.

"'Ey Jay," Dick growled. "Eh…eat my—"

"You're talking when you should be switching arms!" Babs clapped her hands together sharply.

Instead of complying, Dick let out a defeated gasp, and rolled to the side. Barbara yelped as she fell off his shoulders, and landed on her back. Before she could pull herself up, he lifted himself off the ground and planted both hands on either side of her shoulders.

Underneath him, she grinned. He couldn't help but copy her.

"One more," he said softly.

His arms quaked as his elbows bent, and he pushed himself down, then planted his lips on his girlfriend's. She hummed, and reached up to wrap her arms around his neck. Their mouths moved together, tasting and feeling. It might have gone on longer, but all the energy seemed to leech out of him.

He pulled away, then rolled onto his back, laying there on the floor next to her. They both watched the stalactites overhead, and listened to the other breathe. (Dick's breathing was much harder than hers.)

"So. Spill," he said, when his heartrate had returned to normal. His breathing had slowed, and the pounding in his ears had stopped. "What's got you so quiet? Ever since the party last night, you haven't been yourself."

He turned his head to look at her. Barbara's red hair was splayed out around her head as she stared up at the Cave ceiling, and she kept her fingers twined tightly over her stomach.

"Just had a lot on my mind, lately."

He waited. And when she didn't offer anything else up, he sighed. "You'd tell me, right? If something was wrong?"

This time, she turned her head, looking him straight in the eye. "Dick," she said softly, lowering her voice to keep the others from overhearing.

"What is it?"

"I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

He huffed, and smiled. "You know who you're talking to, right?"

She didn't return the grin. "Dick."

"Yeah, Babs. Of course I trust you," he said, sobering. He reached over, and took her hand. "But you know you can trust me too, right? With anything. If something's happening—"

"I don't know if anything  _is."_ Her face tightened. "I don't have enough information yet. I just need to do a little more digging."

"Okay." Dick squeezed her hand. Once. Twice. Three times. "But just let me know. If there's anything I can do."

"You got it."

"Hey," Jason shouted. He replaced the barbell with a clang and sat up, hunched over as he panted. "Anybody seen Timbo this morning?"

Stephanie danced around Damian, sticking her tongue out as she hummed a taunting tune. Damian lashed out with his staff, trying to get a hit in. But every time he came close, Steph would duck or jump or twist out of the way. "Whatsa matter, short stack? Ooh, ooh! Too slow!"

Dick couldn't help but laugh.

"Hey." He nudged Barbara's shoulder. "Remember when that was us?"

She frowned in confusion, then hoisted herself up on her elbows. A wry smile climbed up her face as she watched Batgirl and Robin spar. "I see what you mean." Then she tipped her chin up and shouted encouragement to the younger of the two. "Dami! Go for the knees!"

Damian scowled, probably not too keen on taking fighting advice (he was supposed to be the best, after all. The grandson of the Demon’s Head, the son of the Batman, etc.), but he gripped his staff in both hands, and swung it at Batgirl's legs.

Stephanie cried out, and toppled backwards.

"Use the momentum, Steph!" Dick sat up, grinning.

As she fell, Batgirl threw her arms up above her head, arched her back, then pushed off the ground with her hands. She popped up swinging, swirling the staff around her shoulders and behind her back, and Damian let out a gasp as he narrowly avoided a hit to the head. Barbara and Dick were both on their knees, now, calling out encouragement and tips.

"The staff's an extension of your arm!"

"Come on! Hustle!"

"Damian's left handed! Go for the—"

"Shuddup, Grayson! Steph's right-eye dominant! Attack from the le—"

"C'mon,  _use_ your fingers when you twirl the staff!"

"Straight posture, Dami! Straight posture!"

Jason had joined them on the floor, hands resting on his knees. "Seriously. Anybody seen Timbers?"

Barbara pumped her fist. " _Yeah!_ Swing it right—"

Jason tapped her shoulder, and raised his eyebrows. "Is he even  _alive?"_

"Actually," she said, turning her head. "That's a great question. Dick, where's the middle child?"

"Sleeping," Dick said, grinning.

Barbara's hand fluttered to her chest, and let out a gasp. "You  _lie."_

Damian hit the ground with a grunt. Steph swung the tip of her staff to his neck, and smirked down at her little brother. "You, little gremlin," she said smugly, "Owe me five bucks. And so does Jay, since he totally bet against me. Not cool, boyfriend."

Jason shrugged. "What can I say, girlfriend? The kid's an assassin."

"Yes, well  _I'm_ pretty darn proficient when it comes to staff…um…staffing? Staff-fighting? Whatever. You know what I mean, so pay up!"

Barbara ignored them, and turned to Dick. "I want proof. How can this be?"

Dick grinned, and dug his phone out of his shorts pocket. He tapped the screen a few times, then showed her live footage from Tim's room. It was dark, almost black—which meant that the lights were off, and there was no glow from a computer screen in sight. On the bed, there was a lump that was definitely Tim-sized. Barbara let out a surprised gasp, which of course, made the others stop talking, and gravitate towards the screen.

"Impossible." Damian squinted. "That cannot be Drake."

Steph's eyes bugged out. "Where's our Timmy and what have you done with him?"

"Hold up," Jason said, throwing up a hand. "You guys have cameras in our  _rooms?"_

The three of them shot Dick and Babs dirty looks.

"Only for safety purposes," Dick said, matter-of-factly. "We keep them turned off at all times. Except for when we just need to make sure you guys are okay. Like this, for example."

"Besides." Barbara passed the phone back to Dick, and shrugged. "Bruce was the one to install those, not us."

"Like that makes it okay?"

Dick reached over and smacked his hand against Jason's shoulder. "Ahh, Jaybird," he said, "We stopped questioning all the weird paranoid stuff Bruce did a  _long_ time ago."

“Yeah. Whatever. But you’d _better_ keep mine off or so help me—"

Barbara squinted at the screen. Something was off.

"So," Stephanie said, stretching. "I can clearly knock 'defeat the devil-child' off my to-do list for the day. What's next?"

Damian hugged his knees to his chest. "You were lucky this time, Brown. That's all."

"Hey." Barbara looped an arm around her youngest brother's shoulder, and gave him a light squeeze. The kid struggled at first, then relaxed once he realized she wasn't going anywhere. "You did great, kiddo. Your stance was perfect, and your timing was amazing!"

"Then I should have won. My mother and grandfather would expect nothing less."

"Well, thankfully, they aren't here, are they? And all we expect is that you do your best." Barbara smiled, then looked over at her other siblings. "What say I pop upstairs and wake up Tim, then we all have a family meeting before patrol?"

Dick climbed to his feet, and stretched, letting out an adorable little groan as his shoulders popped. The others followed him up, and watched him closely, waiting for him to pass the verdict. He considered for a second, then shook his head. "Sounds good, Babs. But before we sit down and talk, I say we have…" He cupped his hands over his mouth, and got a mischievous little twinkle in his eyes as he bellowed. " _Mandatory Stealth and Evasion Training!"_

Jason and Stephanie whooped, pumping their fists in the air. Damian just nodded, satisfied.

"Excellent," he said. "This will be the perfect opportunity to put Fatgirl back in her place."

Steph was too busy dancing in a circle with Jason to acknowledge that, thank goodness. Barbara nudged the kid's shoulder and smiled. "Sounds good to me, but we can't have any mandatory fun-time without Red Robin. I'll be right back."

As she stepped toward the elevator, she heard Damian's voice.

"Grayson, would you like to break the news of Drake's probable passing to Delphi, or should I?"

Dick laughed. "He's just sleeping, Lil' D."

"But what about that thing he's always saying, 'sleep is for the dead'? Does that not concern you in the least?"

"Tell Tim he's got five minutes!" Dick shouted to Babs. "Then we're coming up, guns blazing!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

As Barbara flew up the stairs and through the halls to Tim's room, she kept glancing around at all the old portraits hanging on the walls. Old men, distinguished women, and bored looking kids. Bruce definitely had a whole gallery of ancestors and family.

She passed Alfred when she passed a guest room. "Hey, Alf."

"Good afternoon, Miss Barbara," the old butler said. He was busy dusting a shelf full of old fancy-looking knickknacks. "Or, as you so eloquently put it: 'hey'."

She cracked a smile. "Just wanted to give you a heads up. M-SET in a few minutes."

Alfred almost dropped his duster. "Mandatory Stealth and Evasion Training? Oh dear. I'd best hide the breakables, then. Thank you for the warning."

She saluted, then hurried off to her brother's room.

Her fist hovered over the door. But before she could knock, she heard a squeal from the other side.

" _Ah! Timmy! I've gotta_ go!"

" _Aw, can't you just stay a little longer? We can—"_

" _Nuh-uh! You said that_ hours _ago, and now I'm late for—"_

The door swung open, and Barbara stepped back. A young woman gaped at her, and hurried to push the straps of her tank top back up on her shoulders. Her blonde hair was messy, her makeup was a bit smeared, and she cradled a bundle of shimmering fabric in her arms—a discarded evening gown. Definitely a socialite's daughter. Probably from last night.

"I…uh…" The girl's eyes were wider than Barbara would have thought possible. Then, they narrowed. "Who are  _you?"_

Barbara pursed her lips, and Tim bolted upright in his bed. When his eyes landed on her, he clapped both hands over his face, and laid back down slowly with a moan. She forced a smile, and stuck out her hand. "I'm Barbara," she said. "Tim's older sister."

"Oh," the girl said, relieved. She maneuvered a hand out from under the bundle, and awkwardly shook Barbara's hand. Then, she pushed past, and hurried off down the hall.

"Call me, Timmy!" She threw over her shoulder.

Through his hands, Tim's reply was garbled.

Barbara shook her head, and put both hands on her hips.

His fingers moved a bit, and she could see one blue eye peek out from behind them. "Um…hey."

"Hey, yourself." She raised an eyebrow, frowning. Then, after a pause, she turned to glance down the hall. "Tam's looking… _blonde."_

"Don't tell her.  _Please."_

Barbara crossed her arms over her chest. "Don't tell your girlfriend that you're sleeping with other girls? Gee, Timmy. Why would I ever do that?"

He sighed, and sat up. "Babs—"

"I won't tell, relax." She sighed, and leaned up against the doorframe. "You know my job's to keep you alive, right? May I remind you that her dad's the head of the R&D department, and therefore knows how to make things disappear? Or that her big brother's an ex-military boxing champ? Or how about the fact that Tam Fox is scary all on her own? I’m not going to tell her, little bro. _You are._ "

"I know."

"Timmy, this is how you lost Steph, remember? So  _please._ Just be careful."

He pursed his lips, not-quite scowling at her. Then, he gathered the comforter around his lower half, and got out of bed. The covers trailed behind him as he stepped towards the window, and spread the blinds with two fingers. With a jerk of his chin, he beckoned her over.

Hesitantly, Barbara stepped into the room and over to the window.

"I'm doing this for you guys. So just trust me, okay?"

She opened her mouth to retort, but when she glanced through the opening in the blinds, her tongue stopped working. Across the courtyard, over by the gates, she could see the girl Tim had spent the night with. She was trying to get into the backseat of a limousine, but kept turning to shout at the woman shoving a microphone into her face.

Vicki Vale.

"She's been staking out the manor for a while," Tim said. "I'm surprised you guys haven't picked up on it, honestly." He watched the limo screech down the road, and Vale get a face full of exhaust. The reporter waved her fist, then got into her own car and sped off. His expression darkened. "Hounded me all last night about how Tim Drake spends his nights. See,  _she_ had a theory that I like to run across rooftops for fun. And, well…" He waved a hand over at the bed. "Now she knows better, I guess."

Barbara frowned. "Timmy—"

"Forget it." He shrugged. "Least I got some sleep last night, right? Not much, but still…Now, what's up?"

She'd almost forgotten about M-SET. "Get dressed.  _Now."_

"What? Why—"

"Mandatory Stealth and Evasion Training," she said quickly, flying over to his dresser. She tossed a pair of pants and a tshirt at him, which he caught with wide eyes. "Like, now."

He nodded, and Barbara turned away while he pulled the clothes on. "Damian's not here. You can  _call_ it hide-and-seek, Babs."

"Can I, Timmy?  _Can I?"_

Dick's voice bellowed up through the floorboards. "SIXTY SECOND WARNING!"

"#*$%," Babs cursed, and dashed out of the room.

Tim was on his own.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hide and Seek was a proud Wayne family tradition, started by Bruce when Dick was still new to the whole capes-and-masks gimmick. It was the perfect way to train his young partner in the art of hiding and sneaking around—all while having fun.

When Barbara had come along, though, things got a bit more…intense. Paintball guns were added (Bruce disapproved, but how else were they supposed to keep score?) and the whole manor was fair game.

The rules were simple: Cave and outdoors were off limits. No shooting anyone in the face (Luckily, Dick had forgiven her a long time ago—once the swelling had gone down) or anywhere else that was bound to hurt or maim. (With some help from Bruce, they'd managed to make paintball shells that didn't hurt so bad when you got hit…well, there were no welts or swelling at least.) Break something, and Alfred would have your head…so beware. And last but not least, you find someone—you get  _one_ shot, then they get the chance to go and hide again. One and done. (Cough, cough,  _Jason)_

Of course, no one actually followed this rule.

Only when Damian had come along had they started to call it M-SET. Hide and seek was too 'childish'. But a training exercise? That was right up the kid's alley. Not to mention, it was the only way to get him to loosen up a little and have some actual fun.

Armed with her paint gun, Barbara stalked through the halls like a silent predator. She'd always preferred taking the offensive. Besides, if everyone hid and no one attacked, the game would reach a standstill, and that wouldn't be fun for anybody.

It would have been like the time they'd made the mistake of playing with the rest of the Team and Titans in the Watchtower. It had taken the metas about sixteen hours to find them—and even then, Batman and the other Leaguers had called off the game long before anyone could uncover the Batkids, so that they could organize a manhunt. (Bathunt?) They'd tried to go easy on their peers—how they'd missed checking the ceilings was completely beyond Barbara. She could still see the look on Bruce's face when he'd pulled aside the ceiling panels—annoyance mixed with pride. (Clark had nearly fainted with relief that none of his friend's kids had been kidnapped or killed.)

Barbara forced herself to focus on the matter at hand. Crouching low, she peeked around a corner.

All clear. She crept inside, sticking close to the edges. The only sound she made came from the back of her shirt skimming across the wallpaper. A soft whishing noise. And that was her first mistake.

"Aha!" Jason popped up from behind an armchair. His gun popped as he sprayed paintballs her way. Barbara cried out, and dropped to the ground. The wall above her head was splattered with red dots, and she hurried to roll behind a nearby couch. Perfect cover, but Jason kept shooting.

"You missed me, Hood!" she shouted, pressing her cheek into the soft fabric backing. The couch was big, but only shielded her from one side. She'd have to hope none of her other siblings heard the noise and decided to attack from the rear. "You know the rules!"

"Rules schmules! When I—ahhh!"

A series of pops cut her little brother off. Another assailant had heard the noise and come running—not that Barbara was going to stick around long enough to see who it was. She dashed out of the room through the other entrance, and rolled into the kitchen.

"Bad choice, Babs."

A yellow dot exploded by her foot, splashing against the tile.

" _Dangit!"_

She looked up, and saw Tim perched on the fridge. Before he could fire off another shot, she was already crouched behind the counter. Lucky for her, Timmy had pretty bad aim when it came to guns.

Barbara raised her own, took aim, then breathed in slowly. She squeezed the trigger, and there was a bang.

Hearing the noise—so close and so loud—made her flinch. Hard. But she pushed the panic down, and dared to peek over the edge of the counter.

Tim had taken a hard fall from the fridge. He groaned, and stood slowly. Right smack-dab in the center of his chest was a bright orange splatter of paint.

When he saw her, he raised his gun. But Barbara fired first, and he went back down.

Before he had the chance to recover again, Barbara was already gone. She sprinted through a few hallways—picking up her feet and staggering her breathing so that the noise she made was minimal—and ended up in the game room.

The 'game room' was basically a cover for guests. Bruce Wayne had wards, right? Teenage wards. And what, a guest might think, do teenagers do for fun? Answer: foosball and ping-pong. There was also a video game console, but if the Wayne kids ever did have time for video games, they did it out in the living room on the gigantic flatscreen.

In reality, the only reasons they ever went in there was when they were entertaining guests, or if they needed to snag one of the ping-pong balls (the noise annoyed the crap out of Tim, something they all found a bit funny). Or, like now, when they needed a place to _hide._

Barbara moved to take cover behind the foosball table, and almost tripped over the person already huddled behind it. Dick looked up, face pale and scared underneath all the multicolored paint spatters. Judging by the stains, it seemed as though Stephanie, Jason and Damian had all gotten him good. He was almost completely covered in purple, red, and green.

"Please don't shoot," Dick muttered. He batted his eyelashes. "I thought you loved me?"

She lowered her weapon, and crouched down next to him. "Truce?"

"Truce."

"Good." She cradled her gun to her chest, and peeked out from behind the table. "Looks like you found the others?"

"Jason's in the living room," Dick offered.

"Yeah, I ran into him, too."

"But I don't know where the other three are. Steph and Dami shot me up pretty good, then disappeared. Like freaking ninjas! I'm so proud of them."

She smirked. "Timmy's in the kitchen, last I checked. Shall we hunt down the ninjas, then?"

"We shall."

Dick followed her down the hall, matching her steps and speed almost perfectly. They caught Jason in the hall, and by the time they moved on, their younger brother was covered in enough orange and blue that he looked like a laundry pod. When he slid down the wall, there was a perfect silhouette left behind (Alfred was going to love that).

Tim went down easily enough, once they found him in the vent system. (Pretty hard to run away when you're wedged inside a metal shaft).

Damian had eluded them, but Barbara had high enough hopes for finding their sister. They ended up in the sitting room, which was entirely deserted. A few paint spots were smeared on the walls and furniture, but their owners were nowhere to be seen.

"Okay, Babs," Dick whispered. "If we were Steph, where would we hide?"

Barbara smirked, and checked her gun. There was still more than enough paint inside to take down two more Batkids. "Easy," she muttered, a grin slowly stretching up her face. She surveilled the room, considering each possibility, before her eyes finally landed on the one place she knew her sister would pick. "Watch and learn, Wingnut."

She tiptoed over to the fireplace, shot Dick a thumbs-up, then pointed her gun straight up the chimney.

She squeezed the trigger, and there was a yelp from up inside.

Stephanie landed in a heap at the bottom of the fireplace, sending up a cloud of ash. She coughed, and Dick shot her right in the shoulder. A bright blue dot bloomed just to the right of the orange one. She yelped, and raised her own weapon.

"For victory!" she bellowed, firing off her weapon. "For honor!"

Dick went down in a blaze of purple glory.

Barbara leapt out of Steph's way, then avenged her fallen comrade. Batgirl never stood a chance.

As soon as she'd finished off Steph, leaving her sister in a puddle of orange, she heard a slight sound behind her, like the squeak of a floorboard. It was quiet, well controlled, but that didn't change the fact that she'd heard it. She whirled around, and fired off three shots into Damian's chest. The youngest fell backwards with a shout, and glared up at her from the floor. The three orange spatters on his chest were the first three dots he'd collected—she'd ruined his perfect streak.

"Alright!" she shouted. "I got everybody! That means I win, right?"

Jason and Tim staggered into the room, covered head to toe in paint. Steph, Dick and Damian all stood. They all shared a glance, and Barbara watched with growing horror as smiles spread up all their faces. Evil smiles. Plotting smiles. They turned on her, the only one in the room without a speck of paint on her.

Slowly, they raised their weapons.

"Hey," Barbara said, shakily. She took a step back, gun raised. "Hey, guys, game over. I got everybody."

"Oh, not me, sweetheart," Dick crooned. And it was true; he had every color splattered across his skin and clothes  _except_ orange.

Barbara looked down the barrel of her boyfriend's gun. "Dick? But…we had a truce."

"You know what they say, Babs. All's fair in love and war."

"Oh, stop being sappy, Grayson," Jason snapped, rolling his eyes. "Let's take her down."

She glanced over at Stephanie. "Et tu, Batgirl?"

Her sister’s grin was devilish. "Sorry, Babs."

The five of them pulled their triggers, and Barbara fell back as a dozen paintballs splattered across her chest and stomach. She fell against a bookshelf, and threw her hands up over her face to shield herself.

Against her will, she could feel the breath leave her lungs. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she opened her mouth to gasp. But she couldn't make herself breathe.

Alfred emerged from the entryway, and daintily pulled an airhorn from his suit pocket. With a squeeze, and a terrible noise, he signaled the end of the game—or training exercise, depending on who you asked.

But Barbara was still huddled at the base of the bookshelf when the paintballs stopped flying. Her fingers were numb—why were her fingers numb? She could feel herself shaking…she couldn't breathe…oh, $#&%, she couldn't breathe…

"Babs?"

Dick's voice was far away, and garbled, like it was underwater, and she couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. And she couldn't breathe. All she could do was gasp and stare at a fixed point on the carpet at her feet, and she couldn't breathe.

Hands on her shoulders. She gasped.

"Babs!"

"Miss Barbara?"

"Barb?"

"Babs?"

"Babs, you okay?"

"Delphi, what's wrong?"

Barbara ripped the hands off her shoulders. "Don'touchme…"

"You're scaring me. What's going—oh. Oh, $#!%." Barbara could see Dick's blue eyes swimming in her vision. Then, they disappeared, and she could feel him wrapping his arms around her shoulders. Pulling her in closer. She might have suffocated, but he pressed her ear to his chest. She could hear the steady thumping of his heart. It beat against her cheek. She forced herself to draw in a breath, then out. One breath for every three heartbeats. In. Out. In…out…

Slowly, her own heartrate began to slow. She could breathe in, and feel her lungs fill with air.

"Babs," Dick said, softly. "I'm here. It's okay. I'm _so_ sorry."

Her eyes were filled with moisture, but she blinked it away. Barbara let herself stay in Dick's safe embrace for five more seconds. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.

On ten, she pulled away gently, and forced a smile. "Sorry, guys. Guess you just knocked the wind out of me."

Every eye in the room was on her.

"I'm fine. Really. Promise."

No one seemed convinced.

The panic attacks were supposed to have stopped. She was supposed to have gotten better. At the same time she'd seen a physical therapist to help her walk again, she'd been seeing a different kind of therapist. Barbara didn't flinch at the sound of loud laughter anymore. Or zone out when she heard gunshots.

Of course, the fear didn't go away. Not really. Out on patrol, any thug with a gun gave her a second's pause, but then she made herself get over it and start punching. Barbara liked to think that she hid it well. Most of the time.

Besides, this one had been shorter. Only a few minutes at the most.

She  _was_ getting better. For the most part.

And before she had the chance to say anything else, convince them some other way, their arms were around her. Everyone gathered around, crushing her with their weight and concern. Something that tasted like panic rose up in her throat at the tightness all around her, but she pushed it away. Forced herself to relax, and let herself be hugged.

"I'm so, so, so, so sorry!"

"We shouldn't have done that."

"Are you alright, Miss Barbara?"

"We weren't thinking."

"Are you going to be okay?"

"What's wrong? I don't understand." Damian pressed his face into Barbara's chest, and she wrapped her own arms around his shoulders. "Delphi?"

"I'm fine," she gasped. "I'm fine."

"Breathe, Babs," Dick said gently. "I'm here. You're okay."

"I know," Barbara said. "I know."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Everyone worked to scrub the paint off the walls and furniture. Alfred handed out toothbrushes and spray bottles of cleaner, ignoring rolled eyes and complaints. He almost passed over Barbara, insisting that she go and rest on the couch, but she was adamant. She snagged herself a toothbrush and got to scrubbing with the others. Between the six of them, it only took about half an hour.

Afterwards, they all gathered on the couches. Alfred brought them mugs of hot cocoa, and wrapped a blanket around Barbara's shoulders.

"I added cream to your beverage, Miss Barbara. Just the way you like it, if I remember correctly."

She gripped the warm mug with both hands. "Thanks, Alf. You're the best."

Dick made sure that she was comfortable, then snuggled up next to her. The others kept shooting her wary glances, and she wished that they'd all stop babying her. With a huff, she took a sip of her drink. The hot liquid filled her chest with warmth, and she couldn't help but let out a contented sigh.

Outside the windows, the sun was starting to go down. The light from the sunset bathed the room in orange and pink. It was nice, and she nestled down deeper into the couch.

"Okay," Dick said, clapping both hands together. "Family meeting time."

Jason slowly raised a fist into the air. " _Yay."_

"Thanks for the enthusiasm, Jay. Now." His eyes swept the room. "First things first. What's the status on gang activity?"

Stephanie elbowed Tim, and he jumped. Then, he yanked off his watch, pressed a button on the side, and set it down on the coffee table. "Right," he said. A bright blue screen popped up above the watch, and rotated slowly, like a globe. A map of Gotham City and all its districts and neighborhoods were laid out three dimensionally for all to see. "Here, we have elevated Wound Raven activity down in the lower South Sector. Mostly gun-running, but they've also started up again with robberies."

Jason tapped his own watch, and a few glowing dots appeared in Gotham's Cauldron, one of the central crime hubs of the city. "We're seeing a lot of baddies getting together here. Multi-gang activity, and cooperation, and it's all centered right there." One building in the Cauldron lit up like a Christmas tree: The Iceberg Lounge.

"So," Dick said. "Penguin."

"Could he be uniting the gangs, then?" Barbara mused. "Because I still count a dozen families not included here." She tapped the screen, and brought up a list of Gotham crime families. It hovered helpfully next to the map. "Penguin seems to have all of the organized crime baddies, but what about the gangs that take their monikers from the Arkham crew? The Riddler gang. Two Face's gang. The Mutants. Jok—you know. The Rogue families."

Stephanie's eyes widened. "There's more than one big faction, then, isn't there?"

"Looks like it," Dick muttered. He twisted the screen, and it spun until Arkham Asylum was at its center. "So far, we've got two big groups warring on each other. Last night's little surprise entertainment? I'm willing to bet my front teeth that Moth, Firefly and Riddler are part of this new faction."

"Which would mean that Bane and the Vipers—well, and Scarface and the Kabukis—are part of Penguin's faction."

"Hey guys," Jason said, leaning back. He folded his hands behind his neck. "Let's see how many times we can say 'faction' in a sentence? Faction, faction, faction, faction—" They all shot him dirty glances. "What? We can say groups, we can say parties, we can say, like, _anything_ else. Faction's such an annoying word."

Barbara raised an eyebrow at him, but continued. "Well, this Rogues'  _faction_ is most likely operating straight out of Arkham Asylum."

Tim studied the map. "How do you figure?"

"Well," she said, enlarging the image of the prison. "Look at it. The place is a fortress. In theory, it's the perfect stronghold."

"True, true." Stephanie leaned in closer. "But I think the guards would notice a big-time gang operating right under their noses, right? I mean, c'mon."

“Right,” Jason snarked under his breath. “Cause _nothing_ gets past those Arkham guards.”

"Unless," Damian mused, ignoring his older brother. "There is someone in Arkham's chain of command who is allowing that to happen."

"The kid's right. Members of the staff or administrative personnel might be receiving bribes." Dick shrugged. "Or, they could be running the entire thing from their office. And  _that…"_ he tapped the screen with a meaningful look. "Is what we have to figure out."

"Looks like reconnaissance for tonight's patrol, then," Barbara said. She leaned forward and placed her mug on the table with a slight clink. "We'll split up into two groups. Or,  _factions,_ if you will."

"Cut it out," Jason snarled.

"Aw, does that word bother you?" Stephanie batted her eyelashes. "I'll have to remember that for the next time you tease me about my—"

"I'm with Babs," Dick cut in. "One group goes to the Iceberg, and checks out Penguin's back-room operations. We all know he's doing less-than-legal stuff back there already. Let's see if we can prove our theory." He nodded to Barbara. "I think I'll lead that group. You good with that?"

"But of course." Barbara nodded. "The other group goes to Arkham. I'll take that one. We'll be checking out the offices, and scoping out the staff."

"Damian and Jason should come with me," Dick said, nodding to his brothers.

"And I'll need our best hackers," Barbara said, "So Tim and Steph will go with me."

Tim nodded. "Great. Now on to our  _next_ item of business."

He tapped his watch, and the map of Gotham disappeared. In its place, a holographic figure dressed like an owl rose up. "What do you guys make of this little guy?"

Steph snorted. "Doesn't look so tough. Lots of knives, but I think we could take him."

"He saved Grayson's hide," Damian mused. "So there is that to consider."

Dick nodded. "I'm all for being saved. I don’t think he’s necessarily an enemy."

Barbara watched the figure in silence. Tim must have pulled the image from the gala security cams. Now that she could study the man uninterrupted and undistracted, she could see more than she did last night. The musculature on his arms suggested powerful upper body strength. In his legs, the structure of his muscles was similar to a long-distance runner. This man was like a wolf—built to chase his prey, and take them down without mercy.

"You're all familiar, I think," Barbara said solemnly, "With the Court of Owls?"

"Yeah," Tim snorted. "As a nursery rhyme."

Jason sighed. "Eeyup. On the streets, though, it was more like a ghost story. 'Don't talk about the big bad owls or they'll send a Talon for your head'. Whatever that means. Right, Babs?"

"Right." Barbara studied the hologram more closely. Like Jason, she'd grown up on the streets, ever since her parents had died in a car accident when she was little. Street kids had all sorts of superstitions and urban legends to whisper to each other in the dark. The Court of Owls was just one more.

Or so she'd thought.

"But," she continued. "I disagree with Dick."

"What?"

"Until we have more information, I don't think we can consider this owl-man as a friend. I think," she said, tapping the screen, "That he's what the rhyme calls a 'Talon'."

"Awesome." Stephanie tipped her head back. "So, we'll keep an eye on that guy, then. But how do we know he's not just some bozo running around trying to convince people the Court's real? I mean, we've seen it before, right?"

Tim cleared his throat. "The Court's real."

Everyone clammed up, and turned to stare at him. Barbara's brow furrowed. "What?"

"I…uh…" He squirmed. "I spoke with a source. She confirmed that there's  _some_ big organization running things from the shadows. Made up of the city's most powerful."

"Oh? What source would that be, Drake?" Damian's eyes narrowed.

Barbara crossed her arms. "Doesn't matter," she said quickly, not missing the look on Tim’s face. "But did your source say those words exactly?"

"Not…exactly. But she bragged about it a little. Said a few things, and I filled in the rest."

She nodded. "Good work. We'll leave it at that."

Jason wedged an elbow into Tim's ribcage. "Was she cute? Eh? Eh?"

"We'll  _leave it_ at  _that,"_ Barbara repeated meaningfully. Jason nodded, and backed down. "Good. I think we should adjourn, and go suit up—"

"Not. So. Fast." Stephanie snapped her fingers. "I think we  _all_ wanna know one thing. And by 'we', I mean us four." She gestured to herself, and Tim, Jason and Damian. "And that one thing is this, Big-Bats. What's the deal with you and the League?"

Tim perked up, frowning. "Are you gonna join?"

Dick and Barbara shared a glance.

"Nuh-uh," Jason snapped. "Don't tell me you're even considering it! After all the crap they put us through—"

"I don't like it either," Barbara cut in. She waved a hand. "I  _really_ don't like it. But Dick and I still need to talk a few things over."

Dick nodded in agreement. "Things like contingency plans. If we say no, we need to be prepared for how the League might react."

Stephanie's eyes narrowed. "And if you say ‘yes’? Which one of you is it gonna be?"

Barbara's expression darkened. "We'll worry about that when we need to.  _For now,_ though, it's time to get ready for patrol. Tim, Steph, meet me by the cycles in five. Fully suited up—battle armor, just in case."

Dick stood, and clapped his hands. "My group, meet by the Batmobile in five. Still got that katana, Lil' D?"

Damian smiled. "Always."

"Good." Barbara stood up, and shrugged off the blanket. "Now, before we head off, Dick and I have just one last announcement for you guys."

Jason tapped his foot, and eyed the exit. He was itching to get into his suit, Barbara could tell. The others were starting to get a bit antsy too, so they'd make this fast.

"As you know," Dick said, "Tomorrow's the first day of school for the younger three. So we're gonna need to wrap things up quick tonight, okay?"

"Is that it?" Tim said, impatiently, "Cause the sun's down, and I can already hear the sirens. Let's just—"

"Well," Barbara interjected. "Gotham Academy has a special program, right? Every year, they let in a few younger students with above average intelligence…as part of a special gifted program…" She trailed off, and glanced at Dick, fingers laced nervously.

"Yeah?" Steph said. "So?"

Tim's pupils dilated. His breathing hitched like he'd been hit with a tire iron. "Wait."

Damian was quiet.

"So…" Dick picked up where she'd left off. "This year, Tim and Steph—or should I say, Luka—will be seniors at Gotham Academy. And…uh…Dami’llbeafreshman…"

"What was that?" Steph's eyes widened in horror. "What did you say? Cause I heard you say something at the end right there and I don't think I'm going to like it."

"No," Tim muttered, lowering himself back down onto the couch. "No. No, no, no…"

Barbara cleared her throat, and waved her hands. "Damian's gonna be a freshman this year! Yay! Now let's go get changed. Come on, guys!"

Stephanie screamed.

 


	8. Asylum

 

"I cannot $*#^&!%  _buh-lieve_ you guys. When were you gonna tell us, huh? You should've told us sooner, because we're gonna have to deal with the demon spawn at  _school_ now! School should be a safe place! What the $%?# were you two thinking?"

"I'm with BG over there. This isn't cool. You should've said something sooner, cause now we're—"

"Think of his  _teachers,_ for #*%&'s sake! His  _teachers!_ I feel sorry for the man or woman unfortunate enough to—"

"What about the other kids, huh? He'll murder them.  _Murder_ them. Do you know how much it'll take just to keep him out of juvie? A. #!%*$^& _lot."_

"Please.  _Please,_ Boss-lady! Have mercy!"

"Isn't there anything you can do? We just—"

Batwoman clapped her hands over her ears. "Enough!" she shouted.

Red Robin and Batgirl both clammed up, glowering. Barbara's eyes swept the hall, waiting for some insane creep to leap out of the shadows. In the dark, the linoleum floors seemed like glass; cold and shining and threatening. She kept expecting to see a dark silhouette against the tiles, sneaking toward them. But when no strait-jacketed lunatics popped up, she whirled on her younger partners.

"Both of you need to remember that  _we_ are on  _patrol,"_ she whispered, almost hissing. "And patrol means  _stealth. Especially_ when we're waltzing around Arkham."

Tim's chin jutted out. "You still should have told us."

"Seriously." Steph crossed her arms tight over her chest. In the dim light, she looked almost ghost-like. "The little gremlin hates our guts at home. We don't need him to make school miserable now, too."

Barbara waved a hand, and kept edging down the hall. "I'm sorry, but now is not the time to discuss this. And this isn't the place, either." She sighed, then turned her head. Two sets of eyes blinked at her in the dark. She almost wanted to apologize. Another part of her wanted to remind them that Damian was their little  _brother,_ $!#& it, and demand to know why they couldn't at least  _try_ to get along. But then she heard the noises in the background—the ones that Arkham usually made at night time—and grit her teeth. "Keep your eyes and ears open, your mouth closed, and remember to pick up your feet. We're here tonight to gather intel. I'd like to avoid a fight if we can."

"Dangit," Steph muttered. But she and Tim followed after her silently.

They started to turn a corner, and Batwoman leapt back. She threw an arm out to catch Tim and Steph before they could continue, then crouched low to the ground.

 _What is it?_ Tim signed.

Barbara didn't respond, just unclipped a small canister from her belt, pulled the pin, and rolled it around the corner. It made a soft grating sound as it rolled across the tile, then hissed as it went off. They waited, breath held, until they heard a loud _thwump._

Batwoman pressed her cheek to the wall, and dared a slight glance around the corner.

All clear.

She jerked her fingers, and the others followed her into the foggy hallway. Poison Ivy and Calendar Man lay in a heap on the tile. Barbara shared a glance with her siblings, then stepped quickly towards the next turn off point.

She was glad that they'd dodged that bullet; she was in no mood for an all-out brawl tonight. But, as with all things, she was prepared, and so were her siblings. They'd all dressed out tonight in full battle armor. Chest plates, metal gauntlets, reinforced cowls. Tim even wore his meta polymer cape (lovingly nicknamed the 'Vegas Showgirl Wings' by Steph. And Jason. And…heck,  _everyone_ called them that.).

They were in Arkham. Even worse, they were probably in an inmate-controlled Arkham. If it came to a fight, though, they were more than ready. She just prayed that the guards were alright, wherever they were.

Barbara threw up a hand when they reached one more corner. She'd spent years memorizing the floorplan and overall layout of the asylum. They were coming up on the main hub—the very heart and center of Arkham, where they kept only the most dangerous criminals. There was also a guard tower rising up through the center, and of course, the staff's offices.

 _Batgirl,_ she signed.  _Take point. Go high. Be silent. You're our lookout._

Steph's fist bobbed, and she took out her grappling hook. With a determined huff, she darted around the corner.

_Offices on the second tier. Follow Batgirl, then find what you can._

Tim nodded, but his chin dipped.  _And you?_

 _Right behind you. I'll take the ones on the top._ She pursed her lips.  _Now, let's go._

Barbara followed him around the corner, and they sprinted to the center of the room. The only sound was the slight tapping their feet made on the grated flooring. That, and the soft whir of their lines as they shot them up into the ceiling. Which, immediately, set her on edge.

Arkham was  _never_ this quiet.

She flipped the switch, and felt her stomach drop as she flew upwards, left arm straining to keep herself upright. As they rose, she and Tim got a full view of the cells; through the bulletproof glass, it was easy to see that there was no one home.

As soon as her feet hit the railing on the top floor, she turned, and waved to Tim and Steph before darting inside one of the rooms.

This one was simple; desk, wooden swivel chair, a few abstract paintings on the walls. There was even a sad looking little ficus in the corner. But all Barbara cared about was the dormant PC on top of the desk. The systems at the asylum were outdated and easy to hack into—hilariously so. She smirked, and leaned over the keyboard, fingers at the ready.

"Hey there," she whispered. She paused to pull out a USB cable hidden in her gauntlet, connected to her suit's systems. With a click, it snapped into the port, and the PC screen flickered to life. "How about we have ourselves a little chat?"

Her fingertips flew across the keyboard, and Barbara felt that familiar little thrill as the codes and commands streamed across the screen. She hadn't had a rush like this since her Oracle days. There was something powerful about the way information flowed over the screen, completely at her beck and call. So, she relished it, as she gathered a handful of relevant-looking files, and stowed them safely away in her suit's internal hard drive.

When the little bar on the screen finished buffering, there was a small ping in her ear. She smiled, and plucked out the USB. "There, see? Great talk."

"I agree, my dear."

Batwoman whirled, batarang sliding into her palm. She pressed the sharp edge into the fleshy larynx of—

"Dr. Hugo Strange," she said through gritted teeth.

The man smiled. Barbara couldn't see his eyes—the reflection of the computer screen shone off his glasses, giving him two glowing blue orbs for eyes. "Yes," he crooned. "But, please. Put down your weapon. I only want to…have a little chat."

She pressed in harder, and the doctor winced. "Not a chance. But tell me, Strange. Where are the inmates?"

"Around."

"Not good enough," she pressed. " _Where?"_

One corner of Strange's mouth twitched upwards, and Barbara stiffened. She started to turn, but an arm seized her neck, viselike. She let out a strangled gasp, and struggled. But the man—she was absolutely sure that it was a man—had the height advantage. Not to mention that his grip was like iron. He pressed something soft over her mouth and nose. The sickly smell of chemicals filled her senses, and she gagged.

Black dots swirled at the edges of her vision.

She whimpered slightly, as she felt her knees wobble and collapse underneath her.

Then everything was—

 

 

* * *

 

 

Everything was going to $#!^.

"I appreciate your civil tone, little boy, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to refuse."

A smug grin curled up Oswald Cobblepot's face as he laced his fingers. His eyes kept wandering to the patrons and wait staff meandering down below them, but Dick's eyes stayed fixed on the Penguin. They narrowed behind the cowl.

"Actually," he said quietly, "It's Batman."

"Actually," Penguin shot back. "It isn't." He waved a hand, and one of his waiters popped up to offer him a tray of small appetizers. He licked his purple lips, and plucked up a small hor d'oeuvre. "Shee, boy," he said, through a full mouth of food. "I knew the Batman. An' you are not 'im."

Dick crossed his arms over his chest.

From his perch on the balcony railing a few feet away, Robin scoffed. He unsheathed and sheathed his katana rhythmically, glaring at the Rogue/mob boss through slitted eyes. Jason was leaning up against a nearby pillar, half-watching the singer and band down below, and half-listening to the tense conversation.

"Nightwing," Penguin finally decided, after swallowing the contents of his large mouth. "And if  _I_ can recognize that, then so can everyone else. You really are just a little boy running around parading in his daddy's suit and tie, aren't you?" He cleared his throat with a few grunts, then leaned back into his chair with a smirk. "Tell me, then.  _Nightwing._ Is that it? The old king is dead, long live the king?"

Penguin's eyes narrowed as he bared his teeth in a grin. The flesh of his brow dimpled around his monocle, and for a moment, it looked like it would pop out. "Is it everything you ever hoped for? Bet you just couldn't  _wait_ for the day you could snatch that crown off the Bat's head and take it for your own. I'll bet you rejoiced when his body finally went cold, and you could—"

Batman's fist banged on the table so hard that everyone jumped. The dishes rattled. A glass tipped over, and rolled off onto the floor. Cobblepot winced as it shattered into millions of tiny little pieces, and looked up carefully.

Dick's jaw was clenched so tight, he worried it might shatter just like the glass. He could hear his brothers moving behind him. Damian slid off the railing, Jason peeled himself off the pillar. They stalked over towards the Penguin's private table like wolves that could smell blood in the air.

 _Don't let him get to you._ Dick forced his jaw to relax. Slowly.  _Don't let him get to you. He's baiting you. He wants this. Wants you to snap. Don't let him get to you._

He kept his tone level as he lifted his fist off the tablecloth. "I'll say this once more, alright, Penguin? Slowly, so that you can understand this time."

Dick leaned forward, and braced two hands on the table. He was almost nose to nose with Cobblepot now, and caught a whiff of the bird's breath. It stank of old fish and mayonnaise. Why wasn't he surprised?

"Call off your thugs. Lay down the guns. The land-grabs and power-plays are over. Do you understand me?"

Cobblepot's lips pursed. "I am not afraid of you, boy. And neither are my competitors. You can't—"

"Hood." Dick nodded.

Jason whipped out his Glock, and aimed it squarely at Penguin's forehead. The fat old bird fell silent. Damian rolled his eyes, but stayed quiet. He'd wanted to step in for this part, but Dick had made it clear that Jason would be taking the lead on the intimidation front. Robin just didn't have Red Hood's street cred.

The two men standing in the shadows behind Penguin whipped out their own weapons. Almost with a sigh, Batman and Robin disarmed them easily with a few flicks of their wrists. The thugs flew back, pinned to the wall with a dozen batarangs and birdarangs.

"I assume you've heard of the Red Hood?" Dick nodded to his younger brother. "He specializes in putting down Gotham City gangs. Or do I need to remind you of what happened to a number of mob lieutenants a few years back? That one made the papers, if it helps."

Color leeched out of Penguin's face. "I…Y-you…You don't kill…"

"True." Dick shrugged. "But honestly? Hood here's a bit of a wild card. There's no telling what he'll do." As an afterthought, he glanced at Damian. "And don't even get me started on this kid."

Damian started a little, but it wasn't too noticeable. He grinned evilly, and unsheathed his katana with a sharp  _snik._

Penguin flinched back, then glowered. "You can't threaten me. You people don't kill."

"Well, Pengy. Like you said, I'm not really Batman, so there's really no telling what I'll do." He paused for a second, then pulled out another batarang. His wrist snapped, and the weapon sprouted from the pillar just behind Penguin's head. A few centimeters to the right, and he would have hit the Rogue right in his good eye.

A bead of sweat dripped out of the bird's hairline. "I—"

"Maybe I've decided to be a little more lax when it comes to the rules." He scoffed. "They were my mentor's rules, not mine. And look around you, Cobblepot. This is what happens when you aren't willing to get your hands dirty. Now." Batman took out another batarang, and slammed it into the tabletop. The sharp edge bit into the wood, and stuck there, standing straight up. "I'll tell you what. We can compromise, alright?  _You_ can keep your club. _I_ can keep my people as far away from it as you want—if I'm sure that the only fishy things going down here are on the menu. But the gun-running? The drug dealing? Every one of your illegal hobbies—that's all done. And so are the crime families you're pulling into all of this." Dick nodded, and gestured to his brothers. "In exchange, I'll stick to the original Batman's code of conduct. No killing, no maiming, and no setting random fires at all of your strongholds and bases. Capiche?"

Silence fell over the balcony. All they could hear now was the bubbly chatter from the guests down below. The evening's entertainment had stopped playing, and started packing up their gear for the night, as the next band shuffled onto the stage to take their place. Cobblepot's fingers drummed on the tabletop as he ground his teeth. Watching them. Considering.

Jason finally cleared his throat. His arm shook a little from holding up his arm for so long. "Um…so…deal or no deal?"

"Yeah, Penguin," Dick said. He crossed his arms. "What'll it be."

"Please let me maim him," Damian muttered. "Just a little bit."

The Rogue's eyes darted from Bat to Bat. Finally, he licked his lips and straightened. "I get to keep my other holdings."

"Yes."

"And the territory?"

"As long as you keep to the terms I mentioned." Batman glared. "Now, do we have a deal?"

The old bird dipped his head, and let out a sigh. Then, he chuckled. "You've got stones. Just like he did." Penguin looked up. "I respect that. You've got yourself a deal, boy. For now."

Dick nodded, then turned. "Good. Then I think we're done here."

He started out towards the stairwell, and Hood and Robin trailed behind him.

"Be good, Ozzie," he called out. "Or we'll be back. Have a good evening."

"You, too, boy. You, too."

Dick waited until they'd gone down the stairs, through the lobby, then out the front doors, and over to the Batmobile. Then, he finally let himself breathe. He sagged against the side of the car, bracing himself with both arms as he dipped his head.

_#* &%._

Dick forced himself to breathe.

Then, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, man," Jason said softly. "You okay?"

Damian wandered over, and thumbed the hilt of his katana thoughtfully. Staring over at Dick, he said, "You did admirably, Grayson. I didn't know you were capable of intimidation. Usually, you're about as frightening as a mewling kitten."

"Um. Thanks?" Dick straightened, and rolled his shoulders. "Sorry, guys. Just…" He sighed.

"I get it." Hood nodded, and clambered over the side of the car, into the passenger seat. "Shoulda just let me shoot him.  _Pow._ One and done, you know?" He crossed his arms and sank into the seat with a huff. "Man, I wish you'd let me bring the rocket launcher."

Man, Dick was glad he'd hidden that thing a  _long_ time ago.

"The Penguin was wrong, though, wasn't he?" Damian crawled into the back. "You weren't waiting to usurp my father. Right?"

Dick swung his leg over the side, and pulled himself into the driver's seat. He let out a heavy sigh as the seatbelts sprang out of the seat and wrapped tightly around his chest. When the hatch slid back in place over their heads, he wet his lips, put his hands on the wheel, and said, slowly, "I want you both to know that I never wanted this. Ever."

Jason softened. "Hey, man, you don't have to—"

"If I had a choice," Dick said. "If…if Bruce hadn't…"

He trailed off. No one said a word as the Batmobile roared to life. The console lit up like a Christmas tree, bathing the Bats in dim blue light. Dick reached down, and thrust the stick forward into Drive. He felt the car jolt forward when he hit the gas. Tears were stinging his eyes, and he was glad his brothers couldn't see it through the cowl.

Finally, Damian's small voice floated up from the back seat.

"Sometimes we do things we don't want to. Not because we have no other choice, but because it's the right thing to do. And you always do the right thing, Grayson. I…." He cleared his throat, then added, softly. "I admire that about you."

Dick glanced into the rear view mirror, jaw slack, and saw Damian scowl out the window.

"Thanks, Lil' D," he said gently. He pursed his lips, and returned his gaze to the road in front of them as they streaked past Fifth and Main.

The leather of Jason's jacket popped and cracked as he strained to reach over and pat Dick on the back. "Thanks for being our Batman, Golden Boy."

Batman managed a small smile as Red Hood cleared his throat.

After a minute, Dick nodded and said, "Well, that went faster than I was expecting. So…what say we go and see if the others need any help? Anyone up for a trip to Arkham?"

"I'm game," Jason said. "But only if I get to punch somebody."

"What Todd said."

Jason cracked his neck. "And guns. Let me bring my guns."

"And my katana."

Dick smirked.  _Right. Wouldn't want things to get to sentimental in here, would we?_

"Sounds like a plan," he said. "Let's just check in with Babs."

He reached down and pressed a button on the console. A small screen on the dashboard lit up, buffering. Then, static screeched through the car's interior. They all winced as the hissing, grating sound pierced their eardrums.

"Babs?" Dick called out. He lowered the volume. "Babs? You there?"

"Turn it off, man!" Jason clapped his hands over his ears and grimaced. "$&!%, just turn it  _off!"_

Dick pressed a few buttons. The noise cut off. "She's not answering. I wonder if…"

Tim's comm beeped.

"Red Robin." He let out a relieved sigh. "What's your status?"

Tim's voice crackled over the line. "Bat—is th—you?"

His voice kept fizzling out, replaced by static, and a series of pops that Dick strongly suspected was gunfire. He hit the gas a little harder, and the car surged ahead.

"We're here, Tim. What's wrong?"

"Under—atta—get here n—"

The Batmobile's engine hummed as they climbed above ninety miles an hour. Jason hand shot up for the roof handle (otherwise known as the 'Holy $#!^ bar) and clung to it like a lifeline. Dick grit his teeth.

"We're on our way. Just hold on."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Chloroform headaches always hurt like a #!&%^$.

Barbara winced underneath the too-bright fluorescent light dangling above her face. The cold from the steel examination table bit through her suit, and she tested the leather buckles around her wrists and ankles one more time.

Nothing. But what had she really been expecting?

She took inventory again; cape and gloves were gone. Even her belt, which was fingerprint locked, now. They'd probably pressed her thumb to the buckle when they took her gloves…

They'd been watching her for a while, now, just out of sight. But she knew they were there. Hugo Strange and whatever crony he'd used to drug her from behind. (Barbara was kicking herself for that one. If Bruce were still around, he'd have her head for not noticing an assailant two feet behind her.)

Barbara gave her restraints one last tug, then rested her head back against the table with a sigh.

"Enjoying the show?" she muttered. "I thought you wanted to talk."

Footsteps tapped against the linoleum tiles as two men moved to stand on either side of the table. One of them reached up, and turned a knob on the light. It dimmed a little, and Barbara's headache lessened. She breathed a small sigh of relief, but that cut off sharply as the other man's fingers seized her jaw. He turned her head, forcing her to look up at him.

Hugo Strange smiled down at her triumphantly. "I do want to talk, my dear. But as with any scientific study, one must first observe the subject. You can learn a lot about someone by first impressions, after all."

"Is that right?" She flexed her jaw. His grip was too tight.

"For instance. What do you think of my partner? He was kind enough to carry you all the way to my exam room." He turned her face to the other man. "Say hello."

Barbara froze.

A black skull grinned down at her, unblinking, unwavering.

"Hello, there, sweetheart. Remember me?"

The table shook. She strained at her bonds, baring her teeth. " _You!_ You  _#!%$ &^%# %#!^%&$!"_

"See?" Hugo Strange forced her head back down onto the table, clicking his tongue. "Now, now. Calm down."

"When I get out of these, I'm going to rip his throat out. Then yours," Barbara snarled. Then, she added, "He's supposed to be  _dead."_

"I know. Intriguing, isn't it?" He smiled a snake-like smile. "You may not know it, my dear, but you've just told me a lot about yourself."

She growled, and looked away, up towards the ceiling.

"For instance, not many people know about Mr. Sionis' death, and few people hate him quite  _that_ much. I suppose that stems from a painful loss in your past. The tragic death of a family member, I presume? Most definitely at Mr. Sionis' hands." He smiled. "And, my, I doubt Batman would like to hear that you're ready to rip out a man's throat. Could it be that you had something to do with the Black Mask's untimely demise?"

Barbara glowered. "No clue what you're talking about, Huge-O. Go to #$%%."

Strange pressed his lips together in a smirk.

Black Mask cleared his throat. "Anything else you need, or am I good to go?"

Barbara paused, and watched as the doctor nodded. "You've done well, Jeremiah. Why don't you go and help the others downstairs? It would seem the children are lasting longer than I would have hoped."

"Perfect."

As soon as she heard a door click behind the fake Black Mask, Barbara grit her teeth. She should have known that the man she'd just screamed at wasn't Sionis. She would know. She  _should_ have known. But maybe, somewhere in the back of her mind, she'd had the thought that if Stephanie could come back from the gang war…then maybe Black Mask could, too.

"Intriguing."

Strange's finger traced her jawline, stirring her back into focus. She locked eyes with him, and glared.

"What?" she demanded.

"Oh. Nothing. Just the little tremors in your facial expressions. They  _are_ a tad more difficult to distinguish, what with your mask and all, but a trained eye such as mine can still interpret them. Quite easily, in fact."

"Oh, really? And are my facial expressions tipping you off to how royally pissed I am at the moment?" She sneered up at him. "Cause I just wanna make sure that's coming across."

He smirked. "Quite. But actually, I'm referring to your reaction to my associate. First impressions, remember? And my first impression of you, my dear, is of someone who has  _gazed_ into a deep abyss, gone farther than any Bat has gone before…and you didn't flinch. You smiled back. I daresay, I think you even  _enjoyed_ it.

A spot on the back of her head was beginning to ache from being pressed to the table. She shifted, then rolled her eyes. "All that from a few harsh words? Hmm. You must be psychic."

"It's called psycho-analysis, dear girl, and—"

"Yes, yes, Strange." Her eyes narrowed. "I have a $!^*&%# doctorate in Psychology, so there's no need for a lecture."

She actually had a doctorate in Psychology, Law _, and_  Forensic Science. Back in her Oracle days, she'd spent months upon months online finishing up courses through Harvard and Cambridge. Because, when you're stuck in a Clocktower and have a spare hour or five between calls and data-compiling…why not?

"Indeed." Hugo's mouth twisted. "But, no. I will admit that I  _have_ done my research. I have been watching you for a very long time. You…fascinate me."

"Right." She clenched her fists and sighed. "Because  _that's_ not creepy. Not at all."

"Regardless. I know all about you. Your stint as a paraplegic information broker…how you got there in the first place. I know your schedule, your techniques, your behavior. I even know how you fight—with bloodlust and brutality. You put a man in the hospital last month, if I'm not mistaken, though your little Bat-brood doesn't know anything about that, do they? My, what would your mentor say if he were still alive, I wonder?"

Barbara spat in his face.

Strange swiped at the glob of saliva with his sleeve, unaffected. "Not to mention, I saw your little cage match last month. You don't seem to be pulling your punches as much as you ought. Interesting." He reached down, and swiped a thumb over her lips, then pulled it away sharply before her teeth could snap over it. "I can't help but notice that you've continued to wear black lipstick—though that was originally Roulette's signature? If we had more time, and fewer more important things to discuss, perhaps we could expound upon the hidden motivations behind that? I think that the color in particular—"

Her mind was whirling. If she was being honest, Barbara had tuned out about 73% of everything the psychiatrist was waxing on and on about. Instead, she focused on a few key words.

"You know what's 'intriguing', Strange?" Barbara said, interrupting his schpeel about lipstick or some other useless $#*%, "You said that you 'know' my schedule, behavior, etc."

His left eyebrow quirked. "Yes?"

"But, I thought you said you'd been  _watching_ me? The only time you ever said 'see' was when you were referring to Roulette's little cage fight." A smug grin pulled at one corner of her lips. "Which, of course, would imply that you were present for the fight…but  _not_ for anything else?"

Something like shock registered on Strange's face. "I…I was...it…a mere Freudian slip, nothing more…"

"Now, now, Huge-O." Her grin turned into an all-out smirk. "You may not know it, but you've just told me a lot. And you're about to tell me something else." Her expression hardened, along with her tone. "Who is your informant?"

Strange was still flailing like a landed fish.

"Well? Who? Who is it, Strange? Who's been watching me for you?"

And just like that, the doctor hardened again, until his expression was stonier than cinder block. "Who, who, who, indeed,” he replied in a cold, sing-song tone that sent a shiver racing up the back of Barbara’s neck. Something in her mind clicked, but Strange continued, “Does it matter? I know what I know, and you're about to tell me more." He turned, and pulled up a rolling cart.

Barbara strained her neck, but she couldn't see the surface. She could only watch as Strange reached for something on the cart with one gloved hand.

When he turned back to her, he was holding a long syringe.

"Relax yourself, my dear," he said coldly. "Or this will be very painful."

Barbara eyed the dripping needle, and clenched her fists. "Pass. I've already had my flu shots for the season, Doc."

He depressed the plunger slightly, and a small stream of fluid leaked out the tip of the needle. He tapped the syringe, checking to be sure that the liquid inside was at the right dosage, then smiled down at her.

"This is no flu shot, my dear. This is a mild hallucinogen, mixed with a few chemicals—the sort that I doubt you'd recognize. But, in summary, you'll feel a slight prick, then drift off into unconsciousness. A catalyst in the formula will trigger a reaction in your both your hippocampus and amygdala, which will cause you to—"

"You," Barbara muttered under her breath, "Are truly terrible at summing things up, you know that?"

Strange scowled. "The injection will force you to recall certain memories. Is that the explanation you were looking for?"

"That clears things up, yes. Thank you." She rolled her eyes.

With his free hand, the doctor rolled up the Kevlar of her sleeve, and slipped the needle into the soft skin of her inner elbow. Barbara pressed the back of her skull into the table, teeth bared. Before she could stop it, a small groan of pain leaked past her lips.

"You should relax. The effects should be taking effect momentarily, and I will be at your side to monitor your reactions."

Pain flared in her arm, spreading upwards. Her mouth opened as she panted, and let out a small keen.

"Feel free to make your discomfort known. It is important that we test all the effects of the injection."

Barbara tipped her chin up, eyes screwed shut. "Fuh-feel free…to go $&#% yourself, Strange."

When the pain reached her eyes, all she could see was a wall of pure, blinding white. She blinked, but the blankness didn't go away.

 _Holy, $#*!. Did Strange_ blind  _her?_

And then, suddenly, all sound disappeared. As if her ears had suddenly switched off.

Barbara let out a scream.

Not that she could hear it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"That," Steph said, dusting off her hands. " _Should_ be the last one."

They were surrounded by unconscious and unmoving Arkham inmates. Some of them were piled up on top of each other, all of them were bruised and bloody. Just like the Bats.

Right after Tim had plugged in his USB, he'd heard the sound of Steph screaming out for help. When he dashed out to see what was wrong, he saw the entire population of the Asylum descending on his teammate, who was doing her best to fight off the angry mob single-handed. Not even hesitating, Tim had joined the melee. But there was only so much two Bats could fight off alone. If the other three hadn't shown up when they did, Tim wasn't sure that he and Batgirl would have made it out alive.

"Tt." Damian wiped a spot of blood off his chin. Tim doubted it was his own. "That's what you said last time, Fatgirl. And then another wave came from the south wing. Tell me, are you absolutely  _certain_ this time?"

"'Course. There are only so many baddies in this %*$^*!%#*& place!"

Batman panted, and slipped his escrima sticks back into the holsters on his legs. Tim was glad that his older brother had chosen to keep his weapons of choice—they gave him better reach, and frankly, he was sometimes better with the sticks than he was with his fists. "I think," Dick said, "That Steph's right."

"Ha! See?" Steph banged her staff down on the tile. "Suck it, devil-child!"

Tim expected Dick to say something along the lines of 'language' or 'be nice to Damian, he had a good point'. But instead, his older brother had turned to watch Batwoman pile the last thug on top of a nearby pile.

Barbara arched her back, letting out a soft moan as her back popped, then stepped over to the rest of the Bats.

"Good work, gang," she said, high-fiving Jason. "Red Robin, did you get the stuff we needed?"

Tim waved his wrist. "It's all here. What about you?"

She smiled. "Uh.  _Duh."_

The white eyes of Batman's cowl narrowed.

Jason stretched his arms above his head, rolling his shoulders. "Welp. All that, and it's only one in the morning! What say we head back and have ourselves a movie night? I'll bet the kid's never seen a slasher flick before."

Damian scowled. "What. On Earth. Is a 'slasher flick'?"

"Ooh-hoo." Steph rubbed her hands together, and shared a smirk with Jason. "You will see, short one. You will see."

Barbara put her hands on her hips, smiling broadly. She stepped over to Damian, and ruffled his hair. The kid drew back, wide-eyed and scowling. "I think that's a great idea. Why don't we—"

The bang of a gun cut her off short. The Bats all tensed as a spot on the linoleum floor splintered inches away from Batwoman's foot. She glanced down, annoyed.

"Hello?" She called into the darkness of the adjacent hallway.

Two figures stepped out slowly. Tim saw their silhouettes before he saw their faces. Two men, both tall, both well-built. When they reached the dim light, he noticed Stephanie go rigid beside him.

"Y-yuh-yuh-you…" she whimpered, taking a frantic step back.

Tim's jaw clenched when he saw the men, and he couldn't decide which one his teammate was more unhappy to see.

Black Mask grinned at them, hands stuffed into his suit pockets.

And the Cluemaster stood at his side, holding a smoking handgun.

Arthur Brown chuckled. "Is that my little girl? Thought you were worm food, baby doll."

"Looks like she got better," Black Mask muttered. "Despite my best efforts."

Stephanie took another step backward. Then another. Her breathing was borderline erratic.

Tim, Jason, Damian and Dick all moved to stand in front of her. Dick tipped his chin up.

"We're going ask you guys to head back up to your cells." He shrugged. "But if you don't, then I'm not gonna lie. We'll enjoy putting you there ourselves."

Cluemaster pulled up his mask, revealing his face, and gave them a toothy grin. "I don't think so, Bats. I think I'm long overdue for a little daddy-daughter time."

Jason whipped out both guns, snarling. "Get a _clue,_ buddy. That ain't happening."

Barbara snorted, pressing a fist to her mouth.

"You'll have to go through us," Dick said. He shot Batwoman a sideways glance and frowned.

Black Mask pulled out a gun of his own. "That can easily be arranged."

Both sides lunged forward. The three older boys went for Black Mask, fists flying. But Cluemaster easily knocked Batwoman and Robin aside. He sprang towards Batgirl, and pinned her to the floor.

Stephanie squeaked, shrinking away.

Her father pressed the barrel of his gun to her forehead, and grinned.

"You little &!%$#." He laughed in her face. "Do you know how long I've waited for this?"

Her eyes were impossibly wide. She could hear her siblings fighting Black Mask. The gunshots made her wince, and that only made Arthur Brown's smile widen.

"P-please," she whispered. "D-don't…D-d-daddy."

"Huh. Thought your mom fixed that stupid stutter." The barrel dug deeper into her cowl. "Maybe this'll help."

She watched his finger twitch on the trigger. Then, someone shouted, and barreled into Cluemaster. Her father flew to the side, tackled by a mound of leather and body armor.

She scooted away as fast as she could, hyperventilating. Jason brought up his arm, then hammered his fist into Arthur Brown's face. Back up. Down. Again. Again. Again.

Dick was there to grab his fist. "Hood! He's down! That's enough!"

Jason shook him off, then pulled himself back onto his feet. He planted a boot into Brown's side, and the villain turned his head, spitting out a glob of red. "%$&#*^$#," Hood muttered. He hurried over to Steph, kneeling down.

She was on her back, neck craned to watch as Tim yanked Black Mask's arms behind his back. As soon as he was cuffed, Red Robin paused, frowned, then reached up to the back of the man's head. "Hey, Batman. There's something…"

There was a small click, and the black skull split into two halves. They clattered against the floor, and Steph let out a small gasp.

Because the real Black Mask? The skull was his actual  _face._ He'd told her all about it when she'd been chained from his ceiling. He liked to tell her how he'd scarred his face while he dragged a scalpel over her ribs, and jammed pins under her fingernails.

This man? She recognized him instantly: Jeremiah Arkham. He was a doctor at the Asylum. Heck, he probably even owned the place, but at the moment, she didn't care, because suddenly, she could feel an enormous weight lift off her chest, like an elephant had been sitting there, and was suddenly gone…and…and…

Steph tipped her head back against the cold floor. She let out a sound that was half sigh, half sob.

Jason's fingers curled into hers. "Hey, blondie. Hey. Are you okay?"

She stared up at the ceiling. It spun over her head…

Arthur Brown wheezed. Dick bent down to cuff him.

"Well." Barbara laughed. "Looks like  _that's_ the end of it!"

Batman dropped Cluemaster and shot to his feet. His mouth was twisted in a snarl.

Before anyone had the chance to react, his fingers wrapped around Batwoman's throat. He slammed her into the wall so hard that she cried out.

Jason stood quickly. "Dude!"

"What the #&%%, man?" Tim shouted.

"Let go of her!" Damian marched forward, birdarang extended.

Dick snarled, and lifted Barbara higher up the wall. Her feet dangled, kicking at the air as she gurgled for air.

"B-Batman…you're...ah!...hurting me…"

"Where is she?" he demanded.

"Put her down!" Jason pulled out his gun and aimed it at Dick. "Man, I don't want…what the #$%%? Put her down or…uh…"

Dick turned his head, and glared at Hood. He tightened his grip, and Barbara gasped. "Stand down."

"Or what?"

Batman sighed, turning his gaze back on his girlfriend. "You're going to tell me what you did with her.  _Now."_

Tears leaked from Barbara's eyes. The sight made Jason's teeth grind together. He wanted to lunge forward, and throw Dick to the side. He never thought…Dick would  _never_ lay a hand on Barbara. What was this? What did—

Oh.

_Oh._

He put the gun down. Tim and Damian stalked forward.

"You have three seconds to unhand her." Damian snarled. "Or else I'll—"

"Let her down," Tim coaxed. "She hasn't done anything to you.”

Barbara sobbed. "P-Please…babe…"

"Ah," Dick groaned, frustrated. Glowering, he reached down to his belt, and pulled out a batarang. He reared back, then plunged it straight into Barbara's chest. It sunk in, and Tim and Damian screamed. Jason watched, silent. Steph was still unresponsive, staring up at the ceiling with glazed eyes.

But the blood spatter Tim and Damian expected didn't show. The batarang sank into Barbara's chest as easily as a knife through soft butter. She looked down at the weapon in her chest, gaping.

"Aw, crap," she said, features twisting into annoyance. "I thought I was doing such a good job, too. What gave it away?"

Dick reached for one of his ice pellets next. "Everything, Basil.  _Everything."_

Jason watched Barbara's face bubble and contort. Clay shot up out of her neck into Dick's face. Batman flew backwards, clawing at his new facemask. The others leapt forward, guns blazing. Tim hurried to crush an ice capsule into the clay over Dick's mouth and nose, while Jason and Damian tackled the giant clay monster.

Clayface swung a fist of rock at Jason's head. He ducked sharply. Damian jumped up, using Hood's back as a springboard. He yelled, and brought his Katana down on the monster's head. It sliced cleanly through. Half of the Rogue hit the floor with a wet slap. It bubbled, and slid over to the other half, like no damage had been done at all.

The monster shot a stream of clay from his fist, and pinned Robin to the floor with a smack. Damian cried out as the mud climbed up his neck and over his face. With a laugh, Clayface sucked Robin into his chest. Within a few minutes, the kid would asphyxiate. Jason was not about to let that happen.

He leapt forward, diving through the monster's midsection. He felt a mass of something hard, and wrapped his arms around it, before he shot out through the other side. Damian shivered in his arms, gasping for air.

"Had enough?" Clayface whirled back on them. "Cause I'm just getting warmed—AAAHHH!"

Bolts of electricity arced over his lumpy surface, and the monster's mouth fell open in a scream.

Then, he collapsed into a shapeless mound.

Two metal taser probes stuck up from the pile of clay like birthday candles. Steph had pulled herself semi-upright, and held her arm out. The wires from her gauntlet's taser trailed over the floor. She sighed.

"Huh. Shocking." She laid back down. This time, her eyes fluttered shut.

Jason was doubly worried about her, now. Was that really the best pun she could come up with?

Tim helped Dick up, muttering apologies, which Batman shrugged off easily.

"Hey, guys," he said. " _I'm_ sorry. I should have told you outright."

Despite himself, Jason felt a grin twitching at his mouth. "Dude."

"Yeah?"

"You totally could've kissed Clayface."

Dick sighed.

"I mean, what if you hadn't-?"

"Jason," Dick said. "Just…just don't." He squared his shoulders, and glanced up at the guard tower, and the cells above their heads. "Our first priority needs to be finding Batwoman. The  _real_ Batwoman."

They nodded.

"Split up." He readied his grapple, and looked up at Jason. "And Jay?"

"Yeah?"

"Take Batgirl back to the Cave."

He was already sliding an arm underneath her shoulders. "You sure?"

"We'll find her, don't worry."

Jason lifted Stephanie carefully, cradling her gently in his arms. Her eyes stayed shut, and she let out a small groan.

"Too late."

 

 

 

She didn't see the library. Or the gun. Or that #!&*^$!^% clown.

And for that, Barbara was extremely grateful.

She did, however, see her first day as Batgirl. Her first day at the manor. It all seemed to go backward from there, like she was watching sections of her life in reverse,

The whole experience was surreal. Every sensation, every sound, even every scent—it was all so realistic. Or, more specifically, exactly the way Barbara remembered it.

And then, she reached a memory that she'd forgotten she had…

 

 

* * *

 

 

" _P-please, sir!" She made her eyes go as wide as they could. "I can't find my mommy anywhere!"_

_The man looked down his nose at her. His mouth curled into a sneer, and he glanced down at his watch. Solid gold, or at least it looked like it. "Little girl, I don't have time today. Why don't you go and find a policeman?"_

" _But I...but I…" Barbara dug her fingernails into her palm. The pain made her eyes tear up, and from there, it was easy to add a few sniffles until she could feel the warm, wet drops trickle down her cheeks._

" _Ugh. Don't cry."_

 _His eyes traced up and down the street, probably looking for a copper to pass her on to. Out of the corner of her eye, Barbara could see the stray hand dipping into the man's suit pocket. But she forced her eyes to stay fixed up at the man's face, and not on her partner. He'd told her many times that if you wanted to be a distraction,_ don't  _look at the thing you're distracting someone from._

_Still, it was hard to ignore the fat wallet that the boy pulled out. He slipped a newspaper inside to take the prize's place. Barbara had watched him fold it into a small, hefty square a few minutes before, like origami. He was good at looking for targets on the street, and telling exactly how big or heavy their wallets were just by the way they hung in their pockets._

" _Please, mister." Barbara sniffled again. "I just…"_

_The man's hand landed on her shoulder, and he pushed her to the side. As he hurried down the sidewalk, Barbara watched him go._

_The boy's finger tapped her arm. "Got it."_

_She followed him into an alley. They picked their way over garbage, food wrappers, and a sleeping vagrant. Then, they crouched, and the boy opened up the wallet._

_Barbara's jaw dropped. "There's gotta be, like, a bazillion dollars in there, Cal!"_

_Cal laughed. "Hyeah. Somethin' like that. Good job back there. You didn't even look at me this time!"_

_She puffed her chest out. "See? I told you I could do it." She paused, looking at all the crisp green bills folded one on top of the other inside the pressed leather folds. "But why the newspaper, again? Isn't he gonna notice the difference?"_

_Cal's eyebrows waggled. "Nah. See, those uppity-rich guys like to think they's bein' real careful. Pattin' their pockets to make sure their wallets are still there. Make's 'em feel safer. But what they's really doin' is tellin' the whole world where the money is."_

_She nodded, eyes wide._

" _So, what we do, is get somethin' small, and shaped just like the prize. Then, when they tap their pockets, they feel somethin' there, and they don't notice until they go to buy somethin'." Cal's smile widened. "Get it?"_

_Barbara nodded again._

_He ruffled her cropped red hair, then helped her to her feet. "Let's get home, yeah?"_

_They didn't stop until they got to the apartment. Cal and Babs nodded to a few street kids they knew, out on their own morning money-runs, and dodged past laughing and cussing gang bangers. Cal glared at a few of them when they leered at Barbara, and tucked her underneath his arm until they made it back home._

_Really, the apartment was just a storage room at the back of Fanucci's Little Italy. Mr. Fanucci let them lease out the room in exchange for a small payment every month. Barbara was only eleven, but even she knew how lucky they were. Having a roof over your head was a luxury that not a lot of street kids got._

_Not to mention all the free food. Her wide eyes and quivering lip always convinced Mr. Fanucci to slip them a little bit of free garlic bread—off the books, of course._

_Cal rapped on the door with one knuckle. When no one answered, he pulled two small metal sticks out of his pocket—years later, Barbara would learn to call them lockpicks—and wiggled them into the hole in the doorknob._

_The door clicked open, and they stepped inside._

_A cot. A dusty couch they'd discovered in an alley. A small industrial sink, and a mirror Barbara had found tucked behind a dumpster. What more did they need?_

_Cal fell onto the couch with a sigh, running his fingers through his long brown hair._

" _Ah," he sighed. "What do you think, B-girl? Will this be enough to make rent this month?"_

_She bobbed her head, and moved to sit on the cot. Her eyes never left the wallet. She didn't think she'd ever seen so much money in one place before._

_Cal reached down into the couch cushions, and pulled out a jingling pair of handcuffs. He'd lifted them off a copper a few months back, and used them to practice. He clinched them over his wrists, then looked up at Barbara._

" _Gum wrapper?"_

_Her eyes swept the room. "Uh…no."_

" _Aw, well. How ‘bout a bobby pin?"_

_Barbara's fingers raked through her short hair, and she found a small black pin. She grinned, and flicked it to Cal, who caught it easily in both hands. Then, she watched in fascination as he jiggled it into the little keyhole on one side, and popped the left cuff open. He switched to his right, tongue sticking out in concentration._

_Four taps on the door made both of them jump. Cal smiled, and moved to open it. A girl tumbled through, wobbling on her shiny black pumps. She collapsed onto the cot next to Barbara, and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. "Hey there, red."_

" _Hey there, Dina." Barbara grinned. "How much didja get today?"_

_Dina and Cal shared a look. "Lots, hon. Take a look."_

_She tried to hide it with her long white-blonde hair, but Barbara could tell that she was reaching into her bra, face flaming. She withdrew a roll of bills. Barbara's eyes bugged out._

" _Whoa!"_

_Cal and Dina laughed._

" _Guys," Barbara said, in awe. "I think we're rich now."_

_The corner of Cal's mouth quirked. "Rich, huh?"_

" _Yeah! Totally rich! Richer than Bruce Wayne!"_

_Dina laughed, wrapping her in a hug. Barbara's face pressed into her friend's leather jacket. It smelled like beer and old cologne, but she smiled anyway. "C’mon, Babs. Nobody's richer than Bruce Wayne!"_

" _Still though." Cal joined them on the cot, and wrapped his arms around both of them. Ever since he'd hit his growth spurt at sixteen, he was taller than both of them, even Dina, so he could easily reach over both their shoulders. "This calls for some celebration. What say we go ask old Fanucci for a little grub?"_

_Dina waved the bills with a laugh. "It's on me!"_

" _Nah, he'll give it to us for free." He nudged Babs with a grin. "Old man's got a soft spot for our little B-girl."_

_Barbara's grin almost split her face._

" _But first, idiot," Dina said, smirking. "Get yourself out of that cuff, will ya?"_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Barbara blinked hard. When her eyes opened again, she could see that infernal light above her head again. She wiggled her wrists. Still tied down.

"That last one," Strange said slowly. "A happy memory?"

He scribbled something onto a clipboard. His pen scratched against the paper, and Barbara grit her teeth.

"Bite me."

"Hmm."

Something sparked inside of her brain, and she fought a smile.

"Well, your responses were most interesting, to say the least. I'll have to study them, and we'll need to run a few more tests. But in the meantime, let's—"

Barbara let out a moan.

Strange paused.

"Ohhhhh." She gasped. "Ahhhhhhaahhh."

For good measure, she arched her back, eyes squeezed shut.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"What the…#$%% did you… _aahhh…_ do to me?" She panted, eyes rolling up into her head.

"I don't—"

"You #$%&(*$%! What've you…what'veyoudone?"

Barbara convulsed, wrists and ankles shaking as her back and head smacked the table repeatedly. She rolled her eyes up as far into her head as she could manage. And, for extra credit, she let a stream of saliva trickle out the corner of her mouth.

It was a little much, even for her, but it worked. Strange threw down his clipboard, and reached back towards his cart. He prepped another syringe, and tipped her head up, trying to find a bare spot on her throat. Someplace that wasn't covered by armor.

He leaned in close, searching.

_Come on. Come on…_

He strained, head bent low over her face.

Barbara's head whipped up, and she cracked the front of her cowl into Hugo Strange's right temple. Luckily, she had shock plates.

Luckily, Strange didn't.

He collapsed on top of her, out cold.

Now, for the fun part…

She grimaced, then took a deep breath. Barbara twisted her hand so that her fingers were all pressed together, thumb faced down. She found the edge of the table, and pressed the tip of her thumb against it.

"Hoo," she breathed out. "Okay. Ready. Set. G—"

She thrust her hand forward, off the table. Her thumb stayed behind.

There was a small crack, and pain seared through her hand and up her entire arm.

"Ah," she gasped.

Then, she waited for the pain to subside, even if it was just a little, before folding her now-broken thumb against her palm. She'd broken it right at the second knuckle, and the movement was a brand new kind of pain. She whimpered a little, then eased her hand slowly through the leather buckle.

"Oh- _ah!_ Son of a  _& *$%&!"_

It popped free. Barbara heaved a sigh of relief, and used her newly freed arm to shove Hugo Strange onto the floor. The fat man smacked against the tile, and she took a deep breath. After that, it was a simple matter of undoing the other restraints, and stepping onto the concrete floor.

Her eyes roved over the room, then settled on Strange's little rolling cart. On top, her gloves and belt were resting neatly on her folded cape.

Barbara smiled. "Well, hello, darlings."

She slipped them on, then found the door.

There was a flight of stairs that she stumbled down, then another one. She counted herself lucky that she didn't swoon and fall down the steps. Whatever the doctor had injected her with was still making her head a bit fuzzy.

She turned another corner, and ended up at another door. She pushed through without thinking, and ended up outside.

On the roof.

Barbara sighed, craning her neck up to look at one of the Asylum's towers. She'd been at the very top this whole time…

"Awesome," she muttered. "Fan-flippin'-tastic."

Wait. Where was she again? Hadn't there been a door behind her just a second ago? Her mind was spinning. She couldn't remember a door, but she could remember the middle name of her high school biology teacher, and the exact location of her first kiss…

Barbara pressed the heels of her hands to either side of her head. She pressed, and let out a frustrated growl.

_Stupid Strange, stupid needle, stupid brain…_

She spun around, looking down on the yard below. She'd come down…stairs? Yes. She’d come down the stairs for something…what was it again? Her mother's maiden name was Gordon, and Barbara's favorite color had been yellow when she was ten…

Think.

_Think, think, think._

There was a soft tap on one of the roof tiles behind her. She remembered enough of her training to catch it, and she whirled around, batarang at the ready.

Two men stood on the weathered black shingles. One of them tensed, and slid a gleaming bronze-colored knife into one palm. The other threw out a hand, and shook his head slightly.

It only took Barbara a few seconds to recognize their outfits.

_Talons._

"What do you want?" She demanded. Her voice only shook a little.

The one who'd stopped his partner from impaling her straightened a little. "We only—"

"Silence, Talon Rose." The other snarled. He shoved his partner aside, and stepped toward Barbara. He stood inches away. If he wanted to, he could shove his knife right in between the chinks of her armor—and Barbara would probably be too slow to stop him. "You forget your place."

Talon Rose's shoulders hunched menacingly. "I forget nothing. We are here to observe. If anything, it is  _you_ who forget your place. You're too distracted by _his_ presence."

"I said,  _silence."_ The blade darted out, clinking against a piece of the shielding over her abdomen.

Talon Rose produced his own knife. "The Court has not sentenced her. Harm the girl, and our mission will be compromised. Her blood will start a war with the Bats, and we are not yet ready."

The other Talon heaved a frustrated huff, then pulled back the blade.

But Barbara was too busy staring, open-mouthed, at Talon Rose.

_Rose…Rose…CR…Calvin Rose…_

She wet her lips, then tried out her voice.

"C-Cal?"

Talon Rose started, then fixed his unblinking amber eyes on her.

She knew, then. The note she'd been passed at the gala wasn't a hoax, or some kind of psychological scare-tactic.

It was really him.

"Fall back," the other owl snapped.

He and Cal took off down the roof. The first one leapt off the edge into the shadows, but Calvin Rose paused to glance back at her one last time. Then he, too, disappeared into the night.

Tears brimmed in her eyes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Tim flew into the room. Northwest tower, highest point in the entire asylum.

And the last possible place to check.

Dick and Damian were giving the basement one last sweep, just in case they'd missed something.

But what Tim found in the tower was not encouraging.

Medical equipment lined the walls, ringing around a stainless-steel operating table with leather buckle restraints that hung empty and swinging. The table gleamed underneath a hanging fluorescent light fixture. With a breath to steel himself, Tim stepped into the room.

His boot crunched, and he glanced down. A shattered syringe.

Never a good sign.

Then, he spotted a dark mass collapsed underneath the table. His heart leapt up into his throat, and he crouched to get a better look.

_Please don't be Babs…please don't be dead…_

He touched the shoulder, and there came a very masculine moan of pain. Tim frowned, and dragged the man out into the light.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

No answer from Hugo Strange. Tim dropped him with a sigh, then went to the windows.

They were shuttered, locked shut. He made short work of them, then lifted the clasp, and threw them open. It let a little bit of moonlight in, but not much. Tim glanced out the window, which gave a good view of the roof, then paused.

His sister was standing with her back to him, cape huddled around her shoulders, staring off into the night.

Tim flew down the stairs, then threw open the roof access door.

"Babs?" he called out. "You okay?"

Silence. Then, Barbara gave a little laugh.

"Fun fact," she said, softly, "Dick had a Disco phase. It was right before he settled on his Nightwing costume…and he designed this monstrosity…there was glitter, and fringe, and…" She shuddered, laughing again. "We don't talk about it. As a general rule. But now it's seared into my brain. Oh, gosh, it had a V-neck that went all the way down to his—"

Tim waved his hands, and tried to shake that vivid image out of his head. "What the #$%% did he do to you?"

Barbara turned, and offered a wane smile. She pulled the edges of her cape around her like a blanket.

"Nothing," she said. "Just…reminiscing a little, is all."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dick didn't let her out of his sight all the way back to the Cave.

In the Batmobile, he rested one hand on her knee, like he was worried she was going to disappear again. Normally, Barbara would have appreciated the gesture, but tonight was different.

He kept growling under his breath.

"What did he do?"

"Nothing."

"I'm serious."

She sighed. "I was in control the entire time. That sucker gave me everything."

"Everything, huh?" Dick's jaw clenched. "Like what?"

Her chin jutted out. "Like the fact that Strange is getting his information from the Court of Owls. And the fact that they're the ones pulling the strings at Arkham."

"Oh, really?"

"I'd bet my cowl on it."

Dick cranked the wheel to the side. The car lurched left, and Barbara glowered at her partner.

"You know, you could have just a little more faith in me."

"Yeah?” His frown might as well have been carved from stone. There would be no budging him tonight.  “You could have died."

"No."

"Yes."

"Shut up, will you? I was  _fine."_

He turned to glare at her. "Tell that to your hand. I'll ask again. What the #$%% did he do?"

Barbara glanced down at her swollen thumb. It hurt like a #*^$!&#*?^%, but she wasn't about to tell Dick that. "I broke it. So I could get out of the cuffs. He didn't do. A $#&%  _thing!"_

"Your cowl was on. Maybe radio for help next time?"

"That’s an excellent idea,” she huffed, “Too bad the signal was $&#*%!*#& jammed, Grayson!"

"Then…then…" His hand tightened a little on her knee. "Don't get yourself caught next time!"

"I'll keep that in mind!"

"Fine!"

" _Fine!_ What do you mean by  _that,_ you m—!"

"Uh, guys?"

Tim's voice made both of them pause. Barbara glanced into the backseat. Both of the younger boys were staring wide-eyed at them. Damian was clutching his sword hilt like a lifeline.

She glanced over at Dick, who sighed. His grip on her knee loosened, and so did his tone.

"Babs," he said softly. "I'm sorry. You scared the #$%% out of me…but I'm sorry."

"So am I." She settled back into her seat, and stared at the road.

They rolled into the cave, and everyone hopped out without a word. Dick drifted past her, pausing to brush his fingers against hers, then headed upstairs. Tim and Damian followed, with a few muttered apologies of their own.

"Coming?" Tim asked her.

"I'll be right there. Just…need a second, is all."

"Okay."

Barbara waited until everyone had gotten upstairs, then rushed to the Batcomputer. She hurriedly pulled up a signal, then waited, fingers tapping impatiently on the metal desktop.

The window popped up, and Dina Lance's face filled the screen.

"What's up, fearless leader?" She smiled, eyes sparkling. "’Bout time you called. Want me to go get the others? I'll bet they'd love—"

"Dina."

She reached up and pulled off her mask. Dina's grin dipped a little.

"Is…something wrong?"

"Dina," she repeated. She swallowed, then tried again. "It's Cal."

Her friend's breathing hitched, pupil’s dilating. "What?"

"He's _alive."_

 


	9. A For Effort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Obligatory Family Car Singing' warning. Enjoy!  
> Credit goes to Bruno Mars for the lyrics.

 

" _This_ hit, that  _ice_ cold, Mi _chelle_  Pfeiffer, that  _white_ gold!"

Jason whooped and threw his hands into the air. They smacked against the roof of the car. " _This_ one for them  _hood_ girls, them  _good_ girls, straight  _masterpieces!"_

Dick and Steph high fived over the driver's seat headrest. They snapped their fingers and swayed in their seats." _Stylin', wilin',_ livin' it up in the  _city!"_

Barbara laughed. "Got  _Chucks_ on with  _St. Laurent!_ Gotta  _kiss_ myself, I'm so pretty!"

Dick leaned over to peck her on the cheek. Everyone screamed.

" _The road!"_

"Right! Sorry!"

Jason elbowed Tim, who frowned, rolled his eyes, then sang out, "I'm too hot!"

"Hot %*&#!" Everyone shot back. (Except Damian, who was still gazing around the car with total confusion.)

Barbara cupped her hands over her mouth. "Called a  _po_ lice and a  _fire_ man!"

Steph struck a pose, fingers out, lips pursed. "I'm too hot!"

They all clapped. "Hot %*&#!"

"Make a  _dra_ gon wanna re _tire_ man!"

Jason waved his fingers by his face. "I'm too hot!"

Damian frowned. "What is the purpose of this?"

" _Hot %* &#!"_

Dick waved his hand, and threw his head back. " _Say my name,_ you know  _who I am!"_

"I'm too hot!"

"Hot %*&#!"

Barbara's head bobbed. "Am I  _bad_ 'bout that  _money."_

Everyone pointed to Tim. He squinted out the window, and sighed. "It's too early for this…um…what was it again?"

Jason leaned over Damian and whispered it into his ear. Tim nodded. "Right. Um.  _Break it down."_

Steph raised her hands into the air, and soulfully pounded out the next line. " _Girls_ hitcha halle _lu_ jah!"

Jazz hands from everyone. Even Tim. But not Damian.

"Hoo!"

"Girls hit your hallelujah!"

"Hoo!"

" _Girls hit your hallelujah!"_

" _Woo!"_

"What does that even mean? What is this infernal music?"

" _Cause Uptown Funk gon' give it to you!"_

" _Cause Uptown Funk gon' give it t_ —oops, sorry guys. Looks like we're here." Dick spun the wheel and pulled up to the curb. The ivy-covered brick wall crawled past them until they could see the wrought iron gates, and the embellished sign reading,

_GOTHAM ACADEMY ~ EST. 1863_

"Huzzah," Steph muttered. She reached up and flicked the switch on the side of her left temple. Her entire face flickered, and her hair darkened until Luka Novak was the one cramped in between the car door and Jason. Now that the mask was calibrated to the right setting, putting on her disguise was as simple as a single press of a button.

Barbara turned around in her seat. "Everyone's got their backpacks? Textbooks? Pencils?"

Jason laced his fingers under his chin. "Yes, mom."

"Aw, shuddup, you."

He pouted. "You know you love me."

Barbara snorted. "You're lucky I do." She turned to the rest of the kids and smiled. "Everybody, have a great day. Tim, Ste—Luka, don't forget to show Damian where his first class is, okay?"

"Sure."

"Yeah, okay."

"And Dami?" Barbara shot him a grin and a thumbs up. "You got this."

Tim and Steph hopped out of the car. Damian was halfway out the door when he turned back to Dick and Barbara. "Tt. I have faced assassins and psychopaths head-on. How bad can high school possibly be?"

The three elder Bats pasted on smiles, and waved until the others had made their way through the gates. Then, Dick sighed.

"Oh, that poor naïve child," he muttered.

"Ha!" Jason leaned back in his seat.

"I think the question we need to be asking ourselves," Barbara said slowly, "Isn't if Damian's ready for high school. It's whether or not high school is ready for Damian?"

Dick pulled away from the curb, merging easily into morning traffic. "I'll keep my phone close. The Headmaster could call any second."

Jason leaned forward, balancing his elbows on Dick and Barbara's seats. "You think you guys could drop me off at the phone booth? I got a call 'bout an hour ago. The meta-mega-dorks have themselves a bit of a situation in Dubai."

Dick glanced up at the rearview mirror. "Yeah. We know the drill."

They dropped him a few blocks down the road, then started back towards the center of the city. Most Gothamites were headed out on their morning commute, so the roads were crowded. Luckily, the two Bats had come prepared.

Barbara reached up and slid off her top. Her Batwoman armor was already underneath. (Thank goodness for tinted windows) "Plan of attack?" she asked.

Dick popped the first three buttons of his shirt, and glanced over at her. "I say we hit the rooftop, give the streets a quick once-over, then…what?"

"Then we head down to the GCPD. Gordon's got a few things to show us on that serial case." She rummaged in the glove compartment for her gloves and cape, then pulled out Dick's. He accepted them with one hand, keeping an eye on the road.

"Right. Now's as good a time as any, right?"

He and Barbara had hesitated to bring the younger ones in on the Triple B Killer case. Mostly because they all had enough on their plates already, but also because they didn't want their little siblings having to examine cadavers. In all their time as Batman's partners, they'd both seen the worst and darkest that the city had to offer. Best to keep the younger ones with the costumed maniacs, and away from the darker monsters hiding in plain sight. At least, as long as they possibly could.

"And then," Barbara said. "I say we look into the Court."

Dick nodded. He pulled up his cowl, and scowled at the car ahead of them. "The question is, where? If I were a self-absorbed owl-loving socialite club determined to keep the rest of the city under my thumb, where would I…?"

He and Barbara exchanged a glance.

"Harbor House," they both said.

Barbara slipped on her mask, and waited for the click that would attach it to the rest of her cowl. "D'you think the kids are going to be okay?"

"What, with school?"

She slugged him in the shoulder, smirking. "What else would I be talking about, Wingnut?"

He rubbed the spot gingerly. "They'll be fine. If  _we_ could survive it, then they can too. Right?"

Barbara hoped so.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"So this is how I die."

Steph elbowed Tim hard in the side. Her Vlativan accent was thick as she said. "Hush. Is not so bad, yes? You had ze coffee zis morning. Vhat more could you ask for?"

"Nnnnnnnnnnnn."

They shuffled together through the sea of navy-blue jackets towards their next class. Luckily—or unluckily, depending on who you asked—they had most of their classes together. But Tim was just grateful he hadn't been assigned to be Luka's peer mentor. It was their job, whoever they were, to show her around to her classes, help her with her homework, and make sure that she was fitting in socially, academically, and culturally.

He'd actually been a peer mentor his sophomore year. The kid's name had been…Duke? Duke something. Gifted and talented program, just like Damian.

They stopped at Luka's locker, and she pretended to struggle with the lock. "Gah! Stupid American craftmanship."

Tim's eyes were wandering over the crowd. He'd been at this school since Freshman year, and the faces changed, but the people never did. Cheerleaders—already glitzed out in their uniforms for the pep rally after third period. The emo squad—sticking to the corners and edges. The mathletes—whispering to each other as they waded through the crowd, calculators out and at the ready. Probably formulating a strategy for their first competition this weekend.

His eyes lingered on the corkboard hanging a few feet away. It was the first day of school, but there were still tattered fliers from last year pinned all over its porous surface. Every color of the rainbow was represented. A girl stood in front of the board, and reached up to hang a piece of purple paper in the top center.

Red hair peeked out from beneath a black beanie, and Tim watched her tongue slip out a little over her purple-painted lips as she concentrated.

She turned, adjusted her glasses, and looked both ways before plunging back into the crowd.

Steph elbowed him again. "Ooh. Checking out Miss Drama-goth again? You ever find out her name?"

He shrugged.

"Good. You are a taken man, Mr. Drake." She reached up and flicked his nose with a smirk. "For your sake, I hope you remember zat."

Tim batted her hand away. "You know," he muttered. "You're getting scary-good with that accent."

"Vhat is it you Americans say? Ah, yes.  _%*# & straight."_

She stuffed a few books into her locker, then slammed the door shut. She turned, smiling, then stopped. The grin disappeared, and she shot Tim a nervous glance.

"Incoming, Tim."

He turned, and saw Raphael Clark and Ben Vanaver sauntering through the crowd. Apparently, they were back again this year. Mommy and Daddy must've paid off the Headmaster—money could do anything, even erase a few months of setting fires in the bathrooms and shoving underclassmen's heads into toilets.

They were seniors, just like him and Steph. They smirked and flashed their white grins in every direction. Jocks. Stupid Jocks.

To say that Tim hated them was putting it gently. (Getting tipped upside down into a trashcan would do that to a guy.)

Rafe squinted in their direction, then grinned. "Hey, is that Tiny Tim?"

Ben caught on quick. "Yeah, I think it is…"

They stalked over, and Tim resisted the urge to grab Steph and run. It was too late, and too crowded anyway. Both guys towered over him—he was only five-seven, and they'd both passed the six-foot mark the second day of Sophomore year.

Rafe's breath hit him in the face, and he couldn't help but wrinkle his nose. "Can you believe we're seniors, Tiny? Gonna miss this place. So many great memories."

Ben laughed, and shoved Tim's shoulder. "’Specially in the bathroom, right?"

"Hey." Rafe's gaze fell on Steph, and his eyebrows quirked up. "Aren't you gonna introduce us, Tiny?"

Steph stuck her chin out. "My name is Luka Novak. Tim is my friend."

"Ohhhh, is that right?" Ben's eyes widened as he shared a glance with Rafe. "Well, sweetheart, do you mean like, 'friend' friends, or are you two—" He made an obscene gesture with both hands that made Steph's lips purse together tightly.

So, she made it back. "Vhat does this mean?"

Ben's eyes widened. "Well, um." He shot Rafe a sideways glance. "Where're you from exactly?"

"Vlativa. Vhy?"

"Well, hotness," Rafe said, leaning in closer. "We were just wondering if all the girls from your country are this gorgeous."

Tim rolled his eyes, and leaned against the locker. Steph flipped her hair with the back of her hand.

"Not at all! Is just me."

The guys laughed, but Steph cut them off with a sharp gesture. "But I have boyfriend. He is very big, very…how you say in English, Tim?"

Tim snorted. "Possessive."

"Yes.  _Possessive._ "

"Boyfriend, huh? Is it Tiny over there?" Rafe smirked. "He doesn't look so tough. I'll bet I can take him."

"You've been holding out on us, Drake," Ben said, smacking his shoulder again. "All these years, I just figured you were gay. But," He waved a hand. "Tell me something, Lulu—"

"Luka."

"Right. Tell me something." Ben's smirk took up his entire face. "He sucks in bed, right? I mean, they don't call him Tiny Tim for nothing…"

Rafe laughed, and Ben joined in. Steph shot him a sympathetic glance.

Tim just glowered. "Funny," he muttered, crossing his arms, "That's not what your sister said the other night."

He and Rafe both froze.

Ben grabbed the front of his shirt in one meaty fist. "What'd you just say to me, Tiny?"

"I  _said,"_ Tim snarled. His fist closed over Ben's. "That's not what your sister  _Samantha_ said to me the other night."

Ben's eyes widened as that statement sunk in. "You…"

"Yeah. Want me to say it slower this time?"

Tim really wasn't surprised when Ben's fist hit his jaw.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The officers at the GCPD knew not to stare.

They'd seen their fair share of Bats before. And frankly, Batman and Batwoman following the Commish between the desks and up the stairs to the Medical Examiner's office wasn't the most shocking thing to happen in their house.

Gordon rapped on the door while Barbara's eyes traced over the lettering on the frosted glass.

MEDICAL EXAMINER: FAY MOFFIT

"Justa minute!" someone shouted. They could hear scrambling and the clattering of equipment on the other side, and Gordon let out a heavy sigh.

"I swear we haven't had a good ME since Lee Thompkins left." He shook his head. "Now we're stuck with grad students working towards their degrees."

The door flew open. A girl with frizzy teal hair and three lip piercings grinned up at them. "I'll have you know, Commish, that I've already got my degree,  _and_ my minimum five years of work-study. So, I am good to go."

The Commissioner sighed again, then led the two Bats through the door. "Well, Dr. Moffit, best not keep our guests waiting."

Fay Moffit's eyes bugged out when she saw Batman and Batwoman. "Whoa."

Barbara smiled. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Moffit."

"Y-yeah. You too. Bat-lady. Batwoman. Um." Her face reddened. "Sorry. You wanna see the bodies?"

Dick's lips pursed. "That's why we're here."

Fay worked quickly, leading them over to the two cadavers laid out on metal tables. Barbara couldn't help but shudder a bit, thinking that she'd been on a table just like that only a few hours earlier. Dick noticed, and shot her a concerned glance.

As Dr. Moffit pulled aside the sheets covering the bodies, she laid out two strips of white cloth on the female, and one on the male, so that their privacy could remain intact, even after death. Barbara studied the two victims carefully. A woman, probably in her early to mid twenties. And a boy, probably about twelve or thirteen.

"Shaye Prentiss and Freddie Giles," Gordon said solemnly. "Montoya and her men found them yesterday. Same M.O. as the Triple B."

"As you can see, they've—" Fay started, but the Commissioner cut her off.

"One thing I've learned, kid," he said, raising one eyebrow, "Is to just sit back and let the capes do their thing. Watch and learn."

Her eyes stayed wide as she bobbed her head. "Sir, yes, sir."

Dick and Barbara were already circling the bodies.

"Stab wounds on the boy," Dick muttered. His tone was flat. "That's new."

"But he's still got bruises. Still beaten." Barbara's fingertips ghosted over Freddie's arm, and she couldn't help the sting behind her eyes. Too young. He was much too young. "That indicates rage, and lots of it. Most likely a male perp…but look at the angles of the wounds. Our guy's left handed."

"And the woman?"

"Shaye has burn marks all up her arms, just like the other female victims." Barbara bit her lip. "But…"

She indicated a spot on the woman's shoulder, and Dick peered closer. "Ah," he said. "That's interesting."

"What?" Fay asked.

Gordon's finger rose to his lips. "Shh."

"The burns were inflicted post-mortem," Dick said. "She was already gone when he did this to her."

Barbara looked up at Dr. Moffit. "What about the toxicology report? Did she have opioids in her system like the last victim?"

Fay fumbled, and scooped up a clipboard from a nearby table. Her eyes skimmed over it, then she shook her head.

"What was the ultimate cause of death, then?"

"Uh…hold up a sec." Fay flipped a few pages, then tapper her clipboard with a fingernail. "COD…here. Blood loss from the stab wound on her chest. I, uh, covered that up…"

Dick averted his eyes while Barbara took a quick look. She felt guilty for violating Shaye's privacy, even if the woman wasn't in a position to care anymore. So, she made sure she was quick, then looked up at Gordon and the ME.

"Why was he so violent?" Barbara mused. "His anger has always seemed to be directed at the male victims."

"These murders have all been personal," Dick said, frowning. "Could be that he's breaking down. Devolving."

Gordon frowned. "You're saying he's getting worse? Do you think he'll do this to his next targets?"

"Hard to say," Barbara said, glancing sadly at the bodies. "But we think so."

Dick nodded, then turned to the Commissioner and the ME. "I'd have your officers start looking for a man in his fifties or sixties. He's strong, but not strong enough to stab too deeply for too long. If you'll notice, the wounds get more and more shallow." He indicated a few of the dark marks on the boy's chest.

"He's probably employed at a construction site or a body shop, or else works closely with tools. That would give him access to the necessary materials he uses in his torture and murders." Barbara bit the side of her cheek. "And the gasoline he uses for the burns."

Dick gave the bodies one last glance, then said, "And he's most likely single or divorced. These killings seem very family-oriented."

"Like he's trying to recreate the family he lost," Barbara supplied. "And keeps failing."

Gordon took that down on a small notepad. "I'll have my men get on it. Any other bits of advice?"

Barbara nodded. "I'd urge families with boys fitting the description of the male victims to keep their children close. Batman and I will do everything we can to help the GCPD with this case."

"So don't hesitate to reach out if you find any new developments," Dick added.

"Right, then." The Commissioner flipped his notepad shut, and stuffed it into his pocket. "Thank you both for your time. We'll keep you posted if anything changes."

"Thank you, Jim," Barbara said. "Dr. Moffit."

She and Dick opted to exit via the roof access.

The officers may have learned not to stare, but that didn't stop them from whispering.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Damian shouldered his backpack and scowled up at the towering brick building.

It would seem that his countless appeals to Pennyworth had fallen upon deaf ears. He didn't need to be here. Mother had spent years on his academic training; he certainly knew more than any of these mouth-breathing acne-covered—

"Hi!"

Damian jumped, and whirled around. Three children about his age were bouncing up the concrete steps towards him. Two girls, one boy. He couldn't help but stare, mostly because the three of them were so odd-looking.

The taller girl had shoulder length silver hair—definitely dyed—that reflected the sunlight like a newly minted nickel. It made Damian's eyes hurt. She scowled up at him as the other two raced ahead.

The boy had long, spiked orange hair that stuck up in every direction. He was covered in all sorts of ludicrous bandages with varying patterns. The one on his chin had miniature blue Nightwing symbols. Damian was sure Grayson would have been thrilled.

The shorter girl was so…colorful. She was clearly of Asian descent, with short cropped black hair that was filled with multicolored barrettes. Her uniform jacket was covered in patterned buttons and enamel pins. She beamed as she stuck out her hand.

"You've gotta be Damian! We've been looking everywhere for you!"

He stared down at her hand in confusion, then quirked an eyebrow. "Yes. Why?"

The boy grinned. "We're the gifted and talented group. We were supposed to wait together in front of the Headmaster's office for our mentor, but when you didn't show up, we decided to go and look for you instead!"

"And now," the silver-haired girl said, "We're going to be late, and miss our tour. So if you don't mind, can we get moving?"

Damian hesitated as the three of them plunged through the door, but the colorful girl stopped and grabbed him by the hand. She dragged him inside, and Damian resisted the urge to dislocate her shoulder. No one laid a hand on the grandson of the Demon's Head.

But Grayson and Delphi's voices boomed in his head, even louder than the ignorant teenagers barking all around him.

_Hey, kiddo. Not everybody's a threat._

_Learn to differentiate between friendly and not-friendly._

_And please keep the maiming to a bare minimum._

_This'll be a great opportunity to make friends!_

Tt. Damian didn't need friends. But…perhaps allies would do.

The girl had been speaking. Damian snapped back to attention, straining to filter out her words from the rest of the cacophony.

"…so that's how I ended up in the gifted program, and—ooh! Wait! I haven't even told you our names yet! That's Olive. She's fun, even if she doesn't like to admit it." She jabbed a finger over at the silver-haired girl, then swiveled over to the red-head. "And that's Colin. He likes band-aids a lot, even though he doesn't actually need them—"

"They make me look cool," Colin said, grinning. "Like I just got out of a street fight!"

Damian had been in enough 'street fights' to know that band-aids would do next to nothing against the types of wounds acquired in a brawl. But he stayed silent. Best not to shatter this poor boy's illusions so soon.

"And my name," the girl finally said, tapping her chest. "Is Mia. But never  _ever_ call me that, 'kay? I'm just telling you so you don't get confused if a teacher calls me that or something. My friends call me Maps. So you should, too!"

Hn. It would appear that Drake and Todd were incorrect. It turned out he  _could_ make friends easily.

"Ooh!" She yanked him forward. "We're here!"

The Headmaster's office was nothing extraordinary. Heavy wooden door with an expensive black name plaque. There was a girl leaning against the door, though, and she looked up from her phone and smiled when she saw them.

Damian couldn't help but wonder why the Headmaster had picked this girl to be their mentor. In his mind, he'd been picturing someone a little more…professional looking.

This girl had short red hair stuffed underneath a crocheted black beanie. Horn-rimmed glasses framed a set of wide green eyes, and her lips were painted a shimmering purple color that Damian was sure Brown would have squealed over. The girl had two piercings in one ear, and a small pewter dragon wrapped around the other.

"Hey guys!" she said brightly. "Are you my gifted and talented group?"

Maps nodded enthusiastically, and their mentor clapped her hands.

"Great! My name's Carrie, and I'm your peer mentor. They used to call us 'student liaison's, but I guess they figured 'peer mentor' was easier to say." She smiled. "How  _do_ you say liaison, anyway? Liaison like, rhymes with raisin? Guess it doesn't matter."

Maps and Colin giggled. Olive rolled her eyes. Damian was inclined to do the same.

"So. Real quick. Role call?" Carrie tapped something on her phone. "Colin Wilkes?"

"Here!"

"Olive Silverlock?"

"Yup."

"Mia Mizoguchi?"

"That's me!"

"Damian Wayne?"

"Tt. Present."

Carrie squinted at his name, then squinted up at him. Ludicrous, since she was clearly wearing eye glasses, but Damian didn't comment.

"Wayne," she said thoughtfully. "Like Bruce Wayne?"

_Are there any other Wayne's in this $% &# city?_

"My father," Damian said.

"Y'know," she continued, "We've had a  _lot_ of your dad's kids at this school. Gotta be a little scary, trying to fill all those shoes, huh?"

"Hn."

"But don't worry, Damian. Just think of it like this: 'if  _they_ could do it before me, then I can do it too.' Right? The trail has already been blazed for you!"

_Perhaps she was correct. If those idiots could make it, then I should have no problem dominating this institution._

"I prefer," Damian said shortly, "To 'blaze' my own way."

Carrie snapped her fingers. "And  _that_ is the spirit, youngling. Now, follow me, guys! We're going to go and check out the cafeteria and the student lounge first. Right this way…"

 

 

* * *

 

 

Their footsteps pounded rhythmically against the rooftops as they sprinted. Arms pumping. Capes snapping.

Perfectly postured, perfectly in-step. Their legs moved together, mirroring each other perfectly.

Batwoman's heart pounded in her chest when she and Batman flipped themselves into handstands, and swung their bodies over the edge of the Eldon Building. The ground rushed up to meet them, fifty-three stories below and that number was falling fast—pun intended.

What little sunlight that managed to peek through the clouds glinted off the city windows, illuminating the world in white, warming their faces at the same time that the wind chilled them. They locked eyes with each other, and shared a smile before their hands shot into the air.

Two small puffs. Two lines whirring as they shot up towards the next building over. Two sharp yanks as they pulled taut, and then two Bats soared over the city. Toes pointed, bodies streamlined, faces turned up towards the cloudy sky.

Gotham City raced past them. People pointed up, smiling or laughing or nodding, as their guardians flew overhead. It was rare to see Bats flying like this during the day, after all. But no one was really surprised.

Their boots tapped down on the next roof in perfect synchrony. Batman huffed, then grinned out at the skyline. Batwoman rolled her shoulders, wincing at the slight ache in her injured hand.

"Are you going to spill," she wondered aloud, "Or do I have to pry it out of you?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You," Batwoman said, "Are never this quiet on patrol. And you've barely said anything to me since last night." She reached into her belt, doing a quick inventory of her batarangs. "Are you still mad at me?"

He was quiet for a minute. Then, "I'm sorry I snapped at you last night."

Five concussives and seven razors. She'd have to remember to stock up later. "Thanks, but I wasn't fishing for an apology. I'm worried about you."

"I know. But I  _am_ sorry." He looked away, eyes tracing the letters of a billboard nearby. "I just…Penguin was difficult last night. He said some things…that don't really matter. But I let him get under my skin. And then you…" He closed his eyes. "I didn't know where you were, or if you were alright, and that was…terrifying."

She softened, and laid a gloved hand on his arm. "Hey. I promise I was okay."

"Tim told me about Strange's little exam room," Dick said. "And the syringe…You don't have to tell me what he did, not if you don't want to, but I just want you to know that I only got mad because I was worried, and—"

"I'm okay, Dick," she said gently. Her fingers laced through his. "Honestly."

He squeezed her uninjured hand and managed a tight smile. "Right. I know that. You always are, right?"

" _Right_. And so are you."

His eyes meet hers, and they watched each other for the space of a few seconds. Then, Barbara wet her lips. "I promise you, Dick Grayson. You're never going to lose me."

Dick's voice cracked, as the dam seemed to burst. "I hated that room, earlier. Looking at those bodies…they were people once, Babs. And…I kept imagining you on that table. I've watched Jason and Stephanie die. And then Bruce. And with Bruce…" His voice cracked a little more. "If I have to lose anyone else, it'll  _destroy_  me, Babs. But if  _anything_  ever happened to you—" Then it shattered.

Her hands cupped his face, and her thumbs traced his jaw. Then, she reached up, and pressed her lips against his, eyes fluttering shut. He sighed, and pulled her closer, moving his lips with hers. His tongue traced her bottom lip, and she opened her mouth so that he could slip it inside. The world seemed to melt away around them, as the sounds of the city faded to a dull roar. All she could hear was the sound of her heart and of Dick's beating in tandem, and all she could feel were his soft lips on hers and the warmth in her chest as she kissed her boyfriend in the rare Gotham City sunshine.

Eventually, they had to pull apart. She smiled up at him, and ran her fingers up over the top of his cowl, where his hair would be. His eyes never left hers as his fingers curled around her wrist.

"Babs," he said softly. "There's…something I've been meaning to ask you."

She hummed. "Yeah?"

Under the edges of the cowl, she could see red rising in his cheeks. "I…um…we've known each other a really long time, and…I…" He closed his eyes and cursed. "Sorry. What I mean to say is that…"

They both paused as the cellphone in Dick's belt buzzed. Barbara caught his eye, and they shared a worried glance. He pulled out the phone, glanced down at it and pressed it to his ear.

"Headmaster Hammer!" Dick gushed with a panicked grin. Barbara grimaced.

_Please,_ she thought,  _Please don't let there be property damage…or casualties…_

"Oh. No, sir. I'm afraid Bruce is still out of the country. Is there anything I can help you with?"

He paused, listening. His face paled, then his eyes widened in shock.

"I see. Uh, may I ask how badly he's…? Oh. Yes. Right." He swallowed hard. "I'll be there as soon as I can. Thank you, sir. Yes, it's nice to talk to you again…I'm sorry, too. Goodbye."

He jammed to phone back into his belt and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh…"

Barbara's brow furrowed. "Dick? What did he do?"

"It's not Damian," he muttered, eyes screwed shut. "It's  _Tim."_

"Tim?" Her jaw dropped. "What happened?"

"Hammerhead said, and I quote, 'you'll just have to come and see for yourself'." Both hands pressed over his face as he let out a groan. "So that's encouraging."

"I'll come with."

"Okay."

"And Dick?"

"Yeah?"

She nibbled the edge of her lip. "What was it you wanted to ask me?"

His eyes widened. "Oh! Uh…I'll tell you later, okay?"

He turned, and somersaulted off the side. She rolled her eyes, and readied her grapple.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The tour only took approximately thirty-six minutes and fourteen seconds. Carrie shuffled them off to their first class—a place she called 'home room'—then hurried away to her own classes.

This 'home room' turned out to be torturous. The teacher, a batty old woman by the name of Ms. Cooper, rattled off facts about quadratic formulas and imaginary numbers. Damian's eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling for the duration of the lecture; he'd already learned these concepts at the age of four. This was a waste of his time.

Science was equally disappointing. The instructor, Dr. Langstrom, didn't even teach them. He only read off a piece of paper he introduced as a 'syllabus' that outlined everything they'd be learning for the semester. All of which, Damian noted with frustration, he'd mastered by his third year.

Gym was a bit more exciting; at least he had the chance to move. Unfortunately, he found himself falling behind during laps to run with Olive, Colin and Maps, who were huffing and puffing and straining to keep up. Perhaps it was for the best; showing off what he was truly capable of was bound to draw suspicion.

During the lunch block, he followed his newfound allies to the cafeteria—a place Carrie had explained in great detail as being one of the oldest sections of the entire academy. And, noting the cracked walls and mildewed ceiling with a wrinkled nose, Damian was inclined to agree with that assessment.

As soon as they acquired their meal trays, Maps led them past the tables and into the hallway.

"Let's eat in the auditorium!" she chirped. "Lunchroom's too crowded anyway."

So they wandered through the halls, and wound up in the dark room in the center of the building. Plush seats stood in silent rows, pointed towards the sweeping stage. The curtains were drawn back, and lights illuminated the various students milling about with papers or props in their hands.

Damian's hands tightened on his tray, and he slowly started to back out through the door they'd come in.

Colin stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Damian? What's wrong?"

In all honesty, Damian was not fond of theaters like this one. The stage in particular was making the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end. But he swallowed the lump in his throat and shrugged. "Nothing. Where are we sitting, then?"

They ended up in the very back, hidden enough by the darkness that they were invisible to the people onstage, but light enough that they could still easily see each other.

Olive tore open her bag of chips, and Colin set to work on his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Damian had opted for a salad, while Maps had gone for the pizza. They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Maps began laughing and joking with the others about some television show that Damian had never seen. He tuned out the conversation, and instead, his eyes drifted back towards the stage.

Apprehension was a weakness, just as much as fear. He needed to desensitize himself, just as his mother had once desensitized him to the sight of blood and gore. If he forced himself to face the discomfort often enough, it would soon go away.

Besides, a stage was a stupid thing to be afraid of.

Then, he watched Carrie walk out from behind the blue curtain.

"Ooh, hey, look!" Maps pointed. "It's Carrie!"

"Shh, Maps." Olive clapped a hand over her friend's mouth. "They'll hear us."

Carrie's eyes glanced over a few crinkled pieces of paper, then she put them away and said something they couldn't hear to a few boys standing nearby. One of them walked over, looked down at his papers, then held up a hand without glancing up.

"I have done the deed! Didst thou not hear a noise?"

Carrie squared her shoulders, then projected her voice across the auditorium. "I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry. Did not you speak?"

"Good." The boy switched his papers around. "Thanks, Car. I think I've got a feel for the scene now. Ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be. Pick it up on the next page."

The boy cleared his throat, then tucked his papers into his jean's pocket. He threw his arms out to the side and intoned, "Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more! Macbeth doth murder sleep', the innocent sleep, sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care, the death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, chief nourisher in life's feast—"

"What do you mean?" Carrie's face showed concern. Damian raised an eyebrow.

"Still it cried 'Sleep no more!' to all the house: 'Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more; Macbeth shall sleep no more!"

Carrie's voice cracked like a whip as she swiped her hand through the air. "Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane, you do unbend your noble strength, to think so brainsickly of things. Go get some water, and wash this filthy witness from your hand! Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there: go carry them; and smear the sleepy grooms with blood!"

Olive and Maps were watching fascinatedly beside him. Colin was still devouring his sandwich. Damian found that he couldn't take his eyes off the older girl. Grayson had taught him how to read facial expressions. Such skills were useful for wrenching the truth out of one's adversaries, or for assessing threats. With Carrie, though, he found that he couldn't tell whether or not she was truly angry or not.

"I'll go no more!" the boy warbled. "I am afraid to think what I have done; look on't again I dare not!"

"Infirm of purpose!" Carrie snarled, teeth bared. "Give me the daggers! The sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal; for it must seem their guilt!"

The boy took a step back, one arm raised to shield himself against his fellow student, but then he straightened, smiling. Carrie's facial expressions switched sharply from rage to neutrality in a matter of seconds.

"Getting better, Jimmy," she said. "But I'd work on your tone a little more. I wanna  _feel_ the fear and regret in your voice, 'kay?"

"Kay. See you after fifth."

She waved, then pulled out her papers.

There was a shock of feedback, then a rough voice grated over the intercom.  _"Will Raphael Clark and Benjamin Vanaver please report to the front office? Raphael and Benjamin to the front office please…"_

By then, Damian's new allies had finished their meal, and were packing up their trays and leftovers. As they filed out of the auditorium, Damian couldn't help but fall behind. Maps turned back, the question already forming on her lips, but he held up a hand.

"I'll…be right behind you," he said. They wouldn't be hard to find, since all of them had identical class schedules.

"Alright, Damian!" She beamed.

Colin waved. "I'll save you a seat!"

"Just don't be late," Olive said.

The door clicked behind them, and he turned back towards the stage. Almost everyone had left for their classes, but Carrie had stayed behind. She was clearing things out of the way and collecting fallen sheets of paper. When his shoes hit the black rubber covering on the stage, he could feel his throat tighten, but convinced himself to keep walking.

"Excuse me," he said.

Carrie started, then whirled around. Her shoulders relaxed, and she shot him an easy smile. "Well, hello there, Damian Wayne. Can I help you with anything?"

"Yes," he said slowly, thinking his next words through carefully. "I have a question."

"Shoot."

His head tilted slightly to the side. "How were you able to do that?"

"Uh…" She raised an eyebrow. "Do what, exactly?"

"The…thing you did with your face. With your voice." He gestured vaguely with his hands. "It seemed so real. Like you were genuinely angry and scheming."

Carrie smiled, and folded her arms across her chest. "Well, DW, that's the power of acting. Showmanship. Or, as me and my compatriots like to call it…" She threw her hands out, framing the rest of the stage with her fingers. " _Thespianage!"_

From her tone, he supposed that was supposed to be some sort of humorous joke.

He didn't get it.

"It's a drama kid thing," she said, shrugging. "Like espionage? Get it—? It's like…aw, nevermind."

Damian nodded. Then, he crossed his arms. "I want to learn how to do that."

"Make bad puns? Or act?"

"Yes," he said, "I would like to learn how to 'act'. How to make my facial features align a certain way. Make my voice and words…" he shrugged. "Different."

She watched him for a moment, eyes tracing up his face, and down towards his hands. "Y'know," she said, "I think I could swing that. You've got the makings of a magnificent actor. And I can tell, because I  _am_ one."

She smiled, as if expecting him to laugh. When he didn't, she shrugged, and continued.

"Lucky for you, DW, I teach acting lessons in my free time. Can you swing by on Friday? We'd just work together in here, if that's alright with you. I have a group that—"

"No," Damian said quickly. The very thought of others watching while he tried to 'act' made him nauseous. "If it's alright, I would prefer private lessons."

"Huh. Okay. In that case," she said, "Meet me down at the Rec Center on 12th Avenue, then. Saturdays at four. Does that work for you?"

"Yes." He nodded shortly. Then, he added, "I am more than willing to compensate you for your time."

"Hey, no problem. I just—"

"Is three hundred dollars a session adequate?"

Her eyes widened slightly. She said nothing, but Damian could read her expression easily enough this time around.

"Excellent," he said. "I will see you this Saturday, then."

"Uh," Carrie said. "T-thanks."

She turned, and gathered the fallen pieces of paper off the floor.

Damian smirked, and exited the auditorium quickly.

Which is how he collided head-on with Grayson and Delphi.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Those little $#!%s did  _what?"_ Barbara snarled.

They stalked through the hallways, parting the waves of small children like the Red Sea as they marched through. Not because of their uniforms, though. Luckily, they'd been able to change back into their civvies once they found the car—which had been towed for being parked in a fire zone.

Even in shirts and jeans, the two oldest Bats were plenty intimidating when they wanted to be.

And now that they were here, and it was time to get down to business. Barbara and Dick didn't even have time to reminisce or take a good look around their old high school. Their only focus was getting to the principal's office.

Still, Barbara couldn't help but notice just how  _tiny_ all these kids were.

Dick seemed to read her mind. "No way we were ever that shrimpy," he muttered.

"Right?"

They were marching past the auditorium with one of the doors flew open. Barbara stopped just before it could hit her in the face, but Dick tripped over the kid coming out.

"Ah!" he gasped, planting his hands on the kid's shoulders to keep both of them from losing their balance. The kid, though, was having none of it. He shoved Dick’s hands away angrily, and took several steps back.

"Unhand me! You—Grayson?"

Barbara shut the door with one hand. "Hey, Dami. How's your first day going?"

"Delphi?" He glanced back and forth between them. "What is the meaning of this? You're supposed to be on…errands."

"We were," Dick said, straightening. "But now we're here. And  _you_ are late for class, Lil' D. I'd get a move on, if I was you."

He nodded. "Very well. My allies are saving me a seat anyways."

Barbara's eyebrows shot up.

"Take care," he said, taking off down the hall. He lifted his hand to wave at them. "Don't forget to pick us up at three-thirty."

They watched him go, confidently marching down the hall. Barbara and Dick exchanged looks of shock.

" _Allies?"_  she said.

Dick beamed. "Aw, he's already making friends! See? Told you he'd be fine."

From the auditorium, it was a short walk to the office. Sitting outside Headmaster Hammer's door were two beefy rich-boy looking types. Granted, nearly everyone here came from money, but these guys  _exuded_ high-society entitlement.

And, considering they'd gotten into a fight with her baby brother, they weren't nearly as beat-up as they should have been. One had a split lip (good, Timmy'd gotten at least one punch in) and the other was nursing his bloody knuckles. Both boys kept leering at the brunette hunched over in the chair next to them.

Steph looked up, saw her older siblings, and shot to her feet.

"Finally!" she cried. Barbara could tell she was struggling to keep up her accent. There was a red mark on her cheek that was definitely going to bruise. When she saw it, Barbara's blood boiled.

Steph raced over and wrapped her arms around Dick and Barbara, but they got straight to the point.

"Alright," Dick said coldly. "Where's Tim?"

The boys looked up. "You talkin' to us?"

Barbara's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, tough guys. He is. Where's Tim Drake?"

One of them, the blond, glanced over at her, and raised an eyebrow. "Come on over and give me a kiss, sweetheart, and maybe I'll tell you."

"Hh," the other huffed, wiping at the blood on his lip. "No way something like  _that's_ related to Drake."

Dick shrugged himself out of Stephanie's grasp, and marched over to them. He raised his fist, and both boys flinched back.

He smirked. "That's what I thought."

Dick's fist rapped on Hammer's door, instead of the boys' skulls, and the Headmaster opened it almost immediately. He beamed.

"Mr. Grayson! So good to see you!" He shook Dick's hand enthusiastically. "Our math program hasn't been the same since you graduated."

"Well, I miss it," he replied with a pasted-on smile. "But if you don't mind, Headmaster, where's Tim?"

"Hn. Well, that's what we've been trying to figure out. Ms. Novak gave us her side of the story, but so far, these two hooligans aren't talking."

"Yes!" Steph's voice warbled a little. "Tim and ze boys got into argument about somezing, zen boy vith blonde hair grabbed Tim's neck. He and brown-haired boy dragged him avay. I tried to stop zem, but zey hit me, and I fell!"

She could see how tightly Dick's jaw was clenched. He turned to the blond, and glowered. It was his trademarked Bat-Glare—the one that stopped full-blown metas in their tracks. Both boys shrunk back from it, and Dick crouched to look the blond kid in the eye.

"What's your name?"

Blond boy swallowed hard. "Vanaver. Ben."

"Well, Vanaver, Ben. You're going to tell me where my little brother is right now, understand? You should. Cause if you don't? My first call is going to be to Abraham Vanaver, your father, and I'm going to tell him that that two-billion dollar deal he wants to cut with Wayne Enterprises is no longer an option." Dick's eyes narrowed. "Don't think your pops will be too thrilled to hear that piece of news, will he?"

The boy's eyes widened, and Barbara detected a hint of fear.

"Fine," he said. His partner straightened.

"Dude!"

"Shut up, Rafe," Ben Vanaver snarled. "What's it matter, anyway? We got 'im back."

Dick pressed. "Well?"

Ben sighed, then looked Dick square in the eye. "Guys' locker rooms. Number 139."

Rafe cackled. "His clothes are in 203."

Barbara's vision turned red.

Dick looked like he wanted to kill someone, but he took a deep break through his nose, and stood up slowly. "Thanks, Headmaster. We can go get him."

"Good, good." Hammer stepped back into his office. "Thank you, by the way, Mr. Grayson, for the donation check last month. I can only hope you'll show as much generosity in the future."

The door clicked shut, and Barbara's fists clenched. She shot the boys a death-glare as she followed Steph and Dick down the hallway. Dick's pace never let up until they hit the locker rooms, and he threw the door open with a loud bang. Thankfully, though, the room was clear.

It was as humid as a swamp, and smelled like sweaty bodies and gym shorts. Barbara wrinkled her nose, but from her experience, the girl's locker room wasn't much better. They combed the rows until they found 139. Steph moved down to search for 203.

Dick crouched, and studied the lock. It was a simple combination padlock. Easy enough, but Barbara knew it would be easier if it were a traditional padlock. Dick twisted the dial, resetting the lock back to zero, then lifted the shackle up with one finger as he carefully twisted it clockwise. Then counter-clockwise, then clockwise again. From there, he hummed as he did the calculations in his head, then released the shackle. Three twists later, and the lock popped open.

He threw the door open, and Tim blinked up at them, squinting through a swollen eye. Barbara cried out, and reached down to help Dick ease their little brother out of the cramped confines of the locker. Tim was only just small enough that he fit, but even then, he'd been shoved inside pretty tight. As soon as he was out, they laid him out on one of the long benches in the center of the aisle, and began assessing his wounds.

Those #$*%!$*^& had left him his briefs, at least. But Timmy was covered head to toe in bruises and cuts. Even supervillains went easier on him than this. Barbara bit her lip until she tasted blood as her fingers combed through his hair. Half to comfort him, half to check for head wounds. She found three.

Tim groaned, and Steph rushed over with the bundle of his clothes in her arms. She squeaked when she saw him, and dropped his clothes on the bench, bending down to shake his shoulder.

"Tim?" she asked. Her accent disappeared. "Timmy? Are you okay?"

His good eye cracked open. He wet his lips, then winced as his tongue scraped a bleeding cut. "I've been better," he wheezed. "But those guys hit like sissies."

Barbara and Dick shared a glance.

"I know what you're thinking," Tim said, hoarsely. "But they took video, so I couldn't fight back." He tipped his head back and sighed. His eyes shut slowly. "Lucky for them. I could've $&*#$*% destroyed those guys, you know."

Dick, Barbara and Steph all shared a solemn look, and it was decided.

Justice would be served.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jason threw open the fridge, and stuck his head inside.

"Alfred!" he called out. "Where do you keep all the eggs?"

Alfred was busy wrapping Tim's wounds in bandages, gauze and tape. He was laid out on the kitchen island, moaning softly as he held a bag of frozen peas to his swollen eye, and gave the old butler no resistance. Even when he started stitching up one of the cuts on the back of his head.

"This was assault," Barbara fumed. "We can serve them with a lawsuit, can't we? Those two $^!#%^&* deserve suspension, at least!"

Dick was leaning up against one of the kitchen counters, arms crossed, expression dark. "Their parents could afford to fight back. Besides, it's no secret that Sebastian Clark's got most of the city judges in his back pocket."

"Eggs, Alfred!" Jason shouted. His head was still buried inside the fridge.

"Right behind the pickles, Master Jason," Alfred said patiently, as he tied off the last stitch.

Steph and Damian watched with wide eyes.

"Drake?" Damian said softly. "Are you alright?"

Everyone stopped what they were doing to look at the youngest Bat. Even Jason pulled himself out of the fridge to gape. In response, he glowered.

"Not that I care," he said, frowning as he shrugged. "It's just that he won't be able to patrol like this."

"Tt." Tim started to pull himself upright, but Alfred pushed him back down. "I can patrol, guys. I've had worse. This is, like…" he hesitated for a second, wincing. "Nothing."

Barbara frowned. "I don't think so, Tim. You'd better rest up for a few days. I'm thinking three, at the very least."

Tim scowled, but laid his head back without another word. Jason turned away from the fridge, and set a carton of eggs on the counter by Tim's feet.

"This is all we got?"

Alfred nodded with one raised eyebrow. Jason scoffed.

"Fine. I can make a run by the store on the way."

Steph perked up. "On the way where, exactly?"

Jason ground his fist into his hand, baring his teeth. "Gonna go egg their mansions. Stupid little $*%!$#?%&*$(#^%$."

"Well," Steph said, "I'm in. Let's go get our suits. I'd like to see the look on their faces when they peek out the window and see Batgirl and Red Hood egging their house!"

"Yes!" An evil grin curled up Damian's face. "Count me in."

"Dick?" Jason said. "Babs? You game?"

Barbara's cell phone beeped. She reached down and read: 1 NEW MESSAGE FROM  **ARTEMIS.**

THE SUMMIT'S IN TWO DAYS. THEY WANT YOU THERE, AND THEY WANT THEIR ANSWER. I'M SORRY. :(

She looked up at Dick, who was studying her carefully.

"League," she said.

"Oh." Dick's expression darkened. "When?"

"Wednesday."

The rest of the family studied them carefully. Then, Jason raised his hands.

"Sorry, but we need to focus on the issue at hand here, guys. Are you in or out?"

Dick sighed, scowling. "Jay, Batman and company can't just go around egging people's houses. It's not right."

They deflated.

"But," he continued, reaching for his car keys. "The motley Wayne crew does whatever the #&*% we want. Get in the car. I'll grab the ski masks and TP."

Jason, Steph and Damian cheered, pumping their fists, and headed out towards the garage. Tim waved his hand feebly, and laid back down with a sigh.

Dick smiled at Barbara, nudging her shoulder.

"Hey," he said, "We'll figure it out."

"Oh, I know." She glanced back down at the message again. "But I've got a bad feeling about this."

 


	10. Long Live the Kings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: 'Batman and Batwoman Roast the Entire Justice League'. I'm not gonna lie, this one was super satisfying to write. Enjoy! :D

**RECOGNIZED:**

**NIGHTWING B01**

**ORACLE B09**

The zeta tube whirled around them, spinning and throwing off blue light. They both blinked against the brightness, and grit their teeth at the sound of the wrong names.

The Watchtower Hub was filled with sidekicks, non-Leaguers, Team members and Titans. They milled about, laughing, talking, and ultimately messing around. It had become a tradition of sorts—a few years after the Team had been allowed into the Watchtower—to gather everyone together for the League's annual summit, where they decided who would be joining the ranks, who would be relieved of duty, and which direction the League was going to be heading in for the year to come. While the big-wigs met in the meeting hall, everyone else had a sort of party outside.

In a way, it was a great way for the different hero groups to meet on friendly terms. Like a big family reunion. Games were played, there was dancing, eating (and drinking), and all-around fun times to be had by everyone.

But as soon as Batman and Batwoman stepped out of the zeta tube, and their names echoed around the Hub, everyone fell silent. Hundreds of eyes landed on the two behemoths from Gotham City, and that's when the whispers started.

The Bats stepped forward solemnly, letting their siblings walk out behind them.

**RED ROBIN B15**

**RED HOOD B34**

**BATGIRL B35**

**ROBIN B55**

Dressed down in t-shirts and the obligatory sunglasses, they shouldered the canvas bags holding their uniforms. Equally solemn. Equally quiet.

Batwoman turned her head slightly, unsmiling. Under her breath, she said, "Play nice with the other kids."

The others rolled their eyes, but Red Robin nodded. "Don't kill anyone."

Batman frowned. "We'll see."

They marched down the steps, perfectly in sync. Their boots clapped against the floor in flawless 4/4 time, and Batwoman ignored the eyes on her, staring blankly ahead. Batman made eye contact briefly with a few of the former Teammates he'd helped train. Cassie Sandsmark. Jaime Reyes. Karen Beecher (now Duncan). Bart Allen. Several more. They gazed back with blank faces.

Their capes billowed behind them, flashing red and black, and black and blue. They squared their shoulders, hoping to appear more powerful than they actually were. More confident than they felt. Their march ended at the fifty-foot doors in front of them. The brass bars that served as handles waited for them at eye-level, and both could see the whites of their masks' eyes reflected back at them.

They were Batman's star protégé's. The oldest and strongest of his students. They'd learned how to earn the metas' respect a long time ago, just like their mentor before them. And the key was to betray no weakness. Guard yourself, feign omniscience, portray nothing but raw strength.

Batman looked at Batwoman. Batwoman looked at Batman.

Batwoman adjusted one of her armored gauntlets. "Shall we?"

Batman's jaw was set in a hard line. "We shall."

Together, they pushed open the doors.

The first thing to catch their eyes was the gigantic brass symbol of the Justice League, hung on the wall above the League's table. When Dick and Barbara had first joined the Team, the table had only been big enough to seat the dozen or so members. But as the years had passed, and the number of Leaguers expanded, so did their seating. Now, it was U shaped, and large enough to seat the thirty or forty members.

Batman and Batwoman stepped into the room, walking into the center of the U to stand by a holographic device depicting their images and stats for the Leaguers to examine and discuss. There'd been a quiet hum of brief statements and last-minute inputs when they'd entered, but with the real Bats standing before them now, Captain Atom switched off the device. They glanced around at the men and women of the League, and saw smiles, frowns and wary glances. When they caught the eyes of former Teammates, they nodded, but didn't do more than that.

Superman and Wonder Woman sat at the head of the table. Their smiles were gentle, encouraging. One might even call them 'adoring'. Like the parents of two little kids about to perform at their first talent show.

 _How cute,_ they must have been thinking. And maybe it was. Two non-metas standing face to face with the most powerful individuals in the world, like they were somehow equals.

The Bats, however, weren't there to be babied.

"Welcome," Diana said warmly. "We have been waiting for you."

Clark's smile was inviting. "We were just talking about you two."

"We can see that," Batman said, without any trace of warmth.

Clark's smile tightened. Then, he stood.

"Dick," he said, diplomatically. "Barbara. We're glad you could make it to the summit this evening. As you both probably know, we gather every year to evaluate the heroes of Earth, and hold a vote to instate new members of the Justice League. Already, we've voted on several candidates."

All around the table, there were small nods.

"However. We feel that in your case, exceptions apply." Clark paused, as if to compose himself, then resumed. "Batman was a dear friend, and a loyal comrade. He will be sorely missed, and we know that we can't ever truly fill the void that he left behind. But, as Bruce used to say, 'the mission still remains, so the fight must continue'. This is why the League unanimously decided to forgo the vote to fill Bruce's seat, and leave the decision to his successors."

"The League will now hear your decision," Diana said, as Clark took his seat.

Batman and Batwoman exchanged a glance, and gazed solemnly at the empty seat on Superman's left. Bruce's seat. Then, slowly, they met the eyes of every single individual sitting at the table. For a while, there was only silence. The kind of quiet that was deafening, unless you were used to it.

After all, silence had been Bruce's specialty. It was just his way. The League had learned to expect that of the Bats.

But they were done being silent.

Batwoman tipped up her chin. "How very considerate of you," she said, dryly.

"We've considered your kind offer carefully," Batman continued. Barbara could almost feel the edge in his voice, and she watched as several Leaguers picked up on it as well. A few exchanged nervous glances around the room. "And before we tell you what we decided, Batwoman and I would just like to thank you all for giving us a  _say_ in this matter."

"We understand how difficult that must have been. Relinquishing that control." Batwoman narrowed her eyes in Clark and Diana's direction. "And we understand how difficult it must be to see us here now, in these uniforms. With these symbols—these insignias—on our chests. Despite your wishes, that is."

Superman's mouth opened to protest, but they continued. Barbara bent the knee slightly, and turned up her palms in a sarcastic little bow. "After all, we  _are_ just powerless little psychopaths, running around in batsuits all night. Unequal to our predecessor. Most of all, unequal to all of you. Compared to you with your unlimited powers, what are we? We're unstable.  _Unpredictable."_

Dick's eyes narrowed. "And uncontrollable. That was the gist of your little  _discussion,_ right? Batwoman?"

League members' eyes widened as Barbara straightened and typed a few things into her wrist computer. The holograph projector in the floor lit up with an audio visual on its screen. The words they'd spoken just before the Bats had made their entrance were repeated back loudly, and every member flinched. Because Batman and Batwoman weren't wrong.

"We'd like to thank our former Teammates," Dick continued as Wally and Artemis's voices joined M'gann's, Zatanna's and Kaldur's on the recording. "For speaking up on our behalf. And we want you to know that nothing we say is directed at you."

"Now." Barbara clapped her gauntlets together, and cocked her head slightly. "To the fun part."

"Our decision. Which one of us will be joining your ranks, and which will go back to Gotham?" Dick's mouth twisted as he sighed, "Or, to quote Green Lantern number three, 'go back to hopping off roofs and punching clowns'?"

Guy Gardner winced, and the other two Lanterns levelled glares in his direction.

"And for the record," Batwoman said, placing a hand on her chest with a sweet smile. "This was no decision at all, really."

They shared a sidelong glance, then nodded. Batwoman was glad they'd opted for full armor this evening. She was also thankful for the two days they'd had to practice and prepare for this moment. Physically, mentally, emotionally…and of course, technologically.

After all, Bats were nothing if not prepared.

Dick drew himself up to full height, muscles tensing and jaw clenching. The heroes in front of them leaned forward slightly. Ready to hear the verdict, the final decision. Batman wet his lips, cleared his throat, then opened his mouth.

"Batwoman," he growled.

The Leaguers seemed to release the breath they'd been holding. A few smiled, and nodded in approval. Those who'd wanted Dick Grayson among their ranks scowled, but stayed silent. The others who'd preferred Barbara Delphi started to clap. Then, all around the table, every Leaguer applauded. Barbara noticed that Artemis, Zatanna, Roquelle and M'gann were all smiling, but she could tell it was forced. She knew her friends, and she knew what they were thinking even without a mental link; that this was a surrender. Giving into the ultimate will of the Justice League. Just another pair of non-metas strong-armed into compliance.

Clark and Diana beamed, and pushed out their chairs to stand.

"Very well," Clark said. "We have heard your decision, and we wholeheartedly approve. Now. Batwoman, on behalf of the Justice League, we would like to formally extend our welcome to—"

"I'm sorry," Batman said abruptly, throwing up a hand. "But I wasn't talking to you." He turned his head to Barbara. " _Batwoman."_

She bowed her head slightly, and smirked. Her fingers were already on the keys of her wrist computer. "With pleasure, Batman."

A few keystrokes was all it took. Every light in the Watchtower blinked out. The distant hum of the air conditioning and the holograph projector disappeared completely. Cyborg slumped, his head clanking against the tabletop as the light in his cybernetic eye dimmed. Outside the doors, they could hear every non-Leaguer shouting out in confusion. Inside, however, everyone's eyes widened, and there were a few audible gasps of fear.

Especially when the entire Watchtower lurched.

They were falling out of orbit.

Hands gripped the edges of the table. Some of the heroes pushed out their chairs. Some screamed. Superman and Powergirl turned towards the doors, ready to rush out and catch the Watchtower before it could fall.

But before they got that chance, the lurching stopped. And the lights flickered back on. Clanking sounded from the vent, and even the air conditioning came back.

Vic Stone sat up, and heaved a groggy moan as his systems rebooted. One hand rubbed over the metal half of his skull, as if he were experiencing a migraine.

Everything was back to normal in an instant, and the Leaguers gaped.

Dick's lips pursed in an almost-smile. "Amazing isn't it? She could do that from all the way down on Earth, too.  _Underground,_ even. But where's the fun in that?" Batman waved a hand at her with a flourish. "I would like to introduce Batwoman. Formerly the Oracle, also known as the best hacker in the entire world."

Barbara's fingers hovered over her wrist computer. " _Still_ the best hacker in the entire %*&# world."

"Sadly," Dick continued. "She will not be joining you. She belongs in Gotham, fighting by my side."

"Tragic, isn't it? But it's your loss." Batwoman straightened, and waved a hand at Dick. "Allow me to introduce you to the one-and-only Batman," she said. "The best fighter and detective in the entire world. And he won't be sitting at your table, either. He belongs in  _Gotham._ Fighting at  _my_  side."

Aquaman pulled himself back up from underneath the table and glowered at them. "What is the meaning of this?"

"This is insubordination!" Manhunter added.

"Yes," Batman said. "It is.  _Unfortunately,_ though, the Bats don't answer to the League. They never have before, and they won't start today."

Diana's brow furrowed. "Why?" she asked. "Why all of this?"

Batwoman frowned at her. "There are several reasons, actually. The first being this:" She took a breath, then squared her jaw. "Children shouldn't have to bury their father."

"But thanks to all of you, we didn't even get to do that." Dick's tone was as sharp and cold as ice. "Instead, we were spectators at Bruce's funeral. And while you wailed and moaned about how much you were going to miss him…"

"…You sent us to our rooms," Barbara snarled. "Told us to get over it."

Superman glowered, ready to cut in, but Dick beat him to the punch once again.

"And then, there's just the simple matter of hierarchy, Clark."

Batwoman stepped forward, cape furling behind her, and pulled up her wrist computer again. "None of you have ever truly given the Bats the respect we've earned. Not Bruce, your so-called  _friend._ And definitely not us. Don't think we missed the codenames still programmed into the zeta tube."

Dick nodded to her, and she nodded back. With a few taps of her fingers, she remotely activated all of the Holoscreens in the League's tables. Every senior League member now had a personalized, shining list of all their information.

"Bank accounts," Dick said. "Social Security numbers. #$%%, we even know what you ate for breakfast this morning."

Oliver Queen's face paled, as he desperately tried to cover up his internet search history with one gloved hand. Outcry echoed around the table as eyes slowly widened, and the Bats' point started to sink in.

"If we know all that," Batman said. "Then your secret identities and weaknesses are just a keystroke away, right? Batwoman?"

Barbara smirked, and pressed a button on her wrist. The screens shifted, and every hero's most sensitive information—locations of living family members (as well as all of  _their_ info), workplaces, known associates, etc.—flowed across each panel. They gave it a moment to sink in, for the heroes to fully understand just how much they were seeing.

Now, multiple Leaguers stood up, shouting and protesting.

"Put it away!"

"You shouldn't—"

"—how dare you?"

"You can't—"

"Quiet!" Clark banged his fist down on the table. Everyone stopped, and grudgingly took their seats. All around the room, chair legs scraped on the floor, and heroes grumbled underneath their breath. Superman took a moment to breathe in heavily through his nose. His eyes were tracing over his own information, and his face paled slightly. "I understand that you two are still hurting. Bruce's loss was tragic. But that doesn't give you the right to—"

"Please. Don't pretend you understand any of this, Clark," Dick snapped. "And if you have the 'right' to declare the mantle of Batman 'retired' over his open grave, then  _we_ have the 'right', as Batman's successors, to fight back."

Superman turned up his palms. A placating,  _condescending,_ gesture.

"Kids," he said. "Please stop and think about what you're—"

"How's your son, Clark?"

Superman choked on the rest of his sentence. His eyes zeroed in on Batwoman, and she prayed he wouldn't heat-vision her in the face. Still, she was, as Alfred always liked to say, 'in for the penny, in for the pound'. Barbara cleared her throat, and pulled up a holographic image of a young boy on the projector. He was skinny and short, and looked around Damian's age. The boy's smile was as wide as his entire face, and his black hair was messy and sticking up in the back. He wore a red flannel shirt underneath a pair of patched, muddy overalls.

Just a typical, all-American farmboy.

Batwoman cocked her head. "Been trying to keep this little guy a secret for years, haven't you?" She glanced around the room. "How many of you knew that Supes here had a biological son? I know you didn't, Karin."

Powergirl's eyes were wide. She glanced over at her cousin from a few seats away, mouth twisting into an angry frown. Diana shot him a puzzled glance as well.

"Clark?" she demanded. "What is this?"

"Didn't want him in the life, I guess," Dick said, shrugging. "Wanted to keep him tucked away safe in Smallville with his mom. I can understand that. The world's a dangerous place, especially for a 'half-Kryptonian son of the Man of Steel', right? Now, that's a mouthful." Batman's eyes narrowed. "But you  _did_ make sure that he knew exactly who you were, anyways. Who his dad really is, underneath the glasses and pinstripe suit."

Clark floundered, but Batman pressed him further.

"What's the point of being the most powerful man in the world, if you don't bother to take the credit?" Dick waved his hands around the room. His tone took on a bitter edge. "In the end, that's all that really matters, isn't it? We aren't threatening to expose your secret identities, because most of you don't even use one. Or, at least, you don't use believable ones. Because that's what it all comes down to, in the end. What is the  _point_ of all that power, of saving all of the grateful masses, the mere mortals, if you don't get to stand in that shining spotlight? It's not about protecting the people who look up to you at all, is it?"

Batwoman glanced around the room briefly. Boy, if looks could kill…

Barbara brought up the boy's information, and felt a small stab of guilt. But she pushed it down, and said, "Jonathan Samuel Kent. That's his name, right, Clark? Assuming his birth certificate and medical forms are correct. And I know they are."

Superman shot to his feet, eyes narrowed. "I don't know what you're hoping to accomplish, but this is out of line. All of it. Even for you. Take it all down.  _Now."_

Barbara typed in a few things, and instead of disappearing, more info spread up on the projector. "Sorry, Clark, but we can't do that. Especially considering the things we know."

"Which is what, exactly?" Superman's fists clenched. It made a sound that Dick and Barbara could hear, even from several yards away.

"Besides the fact that Jon's favorite color is blue, and that he's scared of the dark?" Batwoman said, eyes narrowed into slits. She shut off her screen, and clenched her fists at her sides. "Everything, heroes. We. Know.  _Everything_. And that's what brings us to our third and final reason for all of this. We know all about D.C. Your meeting with the President, and the heads of the FBI and Department of Homeland Security. And how do we know? Because we're the $*%! &*# Bats, and we recorded the whole thing."

Clark visibly paled. So did Diana. A hush fell over the room, and every Leaguer in the room suddenly shifted and fidgeted in their seats, looking  _very_ uncomfortable.

"For the sake of time," Barbara snapped. "We won't play the entire recording. But we can paraphrase it for you, if you'd like." She waved a hand. "So listen closely, ladies and gentlemen."

"'The new Bats are dangerous'," Dick said, with finger quotes. His voice dripped with venom. "'Impulsive. Their city is crumbling around them faster than they can stem the blood-flow. The writing's on the wall. Make sure your men are standing by, ready to take back Gotham if things spin out of control.'" He pounded out the next words with extra malice. "'The League will offer you its full support.'"

"We're touched." Barbara snapped. "Really."

Silence spread around the table so absolutely, that Barbara could almost hear the hearts pounding in their chests. Flickers of defiance and regret warred on the faces of Bruce's former friends and compatriots. Former Team members, the junior members of the Justice League, gazed at their old mentors with wide eyes and open mouths. Shocked. Maybe a bit horrified, too.

Artemis's hands curled into fists.

"Ollie?" she demanded.

Green Arrow's eyes were wide. "I—"

M'gann said nothing, only glared at Manhunter with narrowed, glowing eyes.

"Nabu." Zatanna turned to Doctor Fate. "Tell me you didn't have anything to do with this?"

Wally's eyes were hard as he glanced at the Flash. "Uncle Barry."

"My king?" Kaldur asked softly.

The senior members of the League had nothing to say. So the Bats filled the silence.

"We were still young," Barbara said. "When we first put on the masks and joined Bruce on the streets. It was unbelievably intimidating, working with him. I'm sure the rest of you can relate. He was strong, but quiet. Dangerous, but never deadly."

"And he introduced us to his team. To you." Dick's expression was hard as steel. "And all of you were larger than life. Amazing. We were in awe."

"Diana," Batwoman said, smiling slightly. "You gave me my first sword. Amazonian made, excellent craftmanship, perfectly balanced. You even taught me how to use it, even though Bruce was horrified when he found out. I've still got it, hanging on a wall in my room."

"And Clark," Dick said. "When I was ten, you let me ride on your back while you flew around Gotham city. You liked to sneak me candy during long, boring League meetings. I'm not going to lie when I say that I looked up to you, sometimes more than I did Bruce."

"We looked up to all of you," Barbara continued. "Because Bruce taught us how to be strong, and how to protect the weak. But the rest of you taught us how to do it with smiles on our faces."

Dick crossed his arms tightly over his chest, and Barbara mirrored him. Their eyes narrowed as they glanced over their increasingly sheepish audience. A few of them actually shrunk down a bit.

"So you can imagine our disappointment. You not only violated our trust," Dick said. "But you've tried to take away everything we've ever cared about. Invalidate it, cheapen it, steal it all away. First Bruce, then his legacy, and now Gotham City itself. Do you understand, now? Why we're doing all of this?"

"Just in case you don't, we'll switch to something on a similar note…Clark. I'm sure the suspense is killing you," Batwoman said, typing at her wrist. "So, let's get back to your son."

"Don't—"

"Smallville Middle School. Straight A student…well, for the most part. There's a C in Biology that I doubt he's mentioned. Just thought you ought to know, before his report card comes out next Tuesday." She bared her teeth, and glanced over her screen again. "Ooh. And here's the kicker. I can tell you exactky where he is, _right now_."

Superman's nostrils flared. His hands curled around the edge of the table as he managed to say, through gritted teeth. "Are you threatening my son?"

Another jab of guilt, but she dismissed it, and glanced over at Dick. She brought a hand up to her cheek, and gasped, feigning shock. "Is it not coming across? I thought I was being clear?"

"I got it." Dick shrugged, and turned to Superman. "Do you get it, Clark?"

The Kryptonian's face was turning a scary shade of red. But, Batwoman just had to keep adding fuel to the fire, or this wasn't going to work…

"Huh," she said, tapping at her computer. "According to the GPS tracker we pinned on him three weeks ago—"

Clark's teeth ground together. A piece of the table snapped off in each fist.

Barbara narrowed her eyes and stared down Superman. "—he's on the Watchtower. Right at this very minute. Now, I wonder…how did that happen?"

That was it. She and Dick could both see it: the straw that broke the camel's back.

He shot over the table.

His fist was raised.

Ready to come down on her skull, crack it in two.

Batwoman's hand came up—

—And she caught Superman's fist in one firm grip.

His eyes shot open wide, and his mouth fell open. "How—?"

In reply, she twisted his arm. The Kryptonian let out a gasp, as his shoulder was wrenched around, forcing him to pirouette with his arm pinned to the back of his cape. He collapsed to his knees, and Batman moved to stand in front of him.

The Leaguers stood, gasping, shouting. A few of them tried to climb over the table. But as soon as they saw their former partners leap over, and gather around the Bats, they stopped short.

Artemis, Wally, Zatanna, Roquelle, M'gann and Kaldur'ahm stood in a ring, arms crossed tightly over their chests. Their expressions were solemn, and frightening enough to scare the League into silence.

Dick leaned down, so that he could look Superman in the face. "It hurts you, doesn't it?"

Clark grunted, teeth gritted against the agony that must have been coursing through him. "Y-yes. How? Why does—?"

"I'll tell you," Barbara said, keeping him pinned. "We were trained by the $#!*^%&#  _Batman."_

"Kryptonite," Dick clarified. He held up his gauntlet, and waved his fingers. "Woven right into the fabric of our gloves. Which means, we can do  _this."_

Before anyone had the chance to protest, Dick reared back, and bashed his fist against Superman's jaw.

Clark's head snapped to the side. Blood dribbled off his lips.

"Would you look at that?" Barbara muttered. "He does bleed."

Diana held her sword at her side. She'd been just about to leap into the fray, ready to come to her teammate's defense. But at the sight of his blood, she faltered. The other Leaguers were in similar positions.

Batwoman kept Clark pinned while Batman leaned in close, eyes narrowed.

"So here's our point. Our city, our father's legacy, and most importantly, our  _siblings—_ they're all off limits. You come after our family?"

Barbara snarled. "We go after yours."

"Send government goons into Gotham to haul us both off to prison?"

"Now, where do you think that leaves our kids?"

"And let me tell you," Dick said, deathly calm. "Should that happen. Should you and your metas force the Bats out of Gotham, then I can  _promise you._ Batwoman and I will stop at  _nothing_ to escape, and come and find you. You know what our mentor was capable of? I can assure you that together, we're capable of so much more."

"We  _will_  find you, Clark," Batwoman added. "And when we do, we'll make sure that Jon knows exactly what it's like to lose a father."

For a fraction of a second, Dick lost his composure. The white slits of his eyes glanced up at hers, shocked, but then he recovered.

"All of you," he said. "Listen up, right now. Batman and Batwoman answer to no one. We're done associating with the League. No more threats, no more interference. For the  _last time._ Gotham is ours! The mantle is ours!"

"Now we'll see how well you do without us," Barbara finished.

She stepped back, and released the Man of Steel. Superman strained to get to his feet, groaning softly. He straightened, and shook his shoulders, clearing the last effects of the Kryptonite from his system. His eyes narrowed.

But then, he nodded.

"Fine."

With that one word, the League relaxed. There were still grumbles as they began filing out of the meeting hall, but no one offered up any more resistance. Their de facto leader had spoken. His word was law, as far as they were concerned.

As he passed, though, Martian Manhunter stopped to place a hand on Dick's shoulder.

"I hope you know what you are doing."

Hawkgirl and Black Canary gave Barbara nods of respect as they sauntered by.

Wonder Woman's fingers brushed hers, and she shot them both a look of regret. But she said nothing, only followed the others out of the room.

Doctor Fate paused on his way out, staring them both down. Barbara recognized Zatara's tired eyes behind the helmet, but it was Nabu's voice that spoke. "So. The old king is dead. Long live the kings."

Dick's shoulders jerked as he went rigid, and his eyes widened. He seemed to freeze, and Barbara shot him a concerned glance. Then, she wet her lips, slipped her fingers into Batman's and said,

"That's right, Nabu. Long live the king. And respect him." Batwoman glowered. "Or face the wrath of the queen."

Fate nodded, seemingly satisfied, and continued on his way.

As soon as he'd gone, she leaned in close, and whispered against her partner's ear. "Dick? Are you okay?"

He nodded, but said nothing. His blank gaze was a million miles away.

A finger tapped her shoulder, and Barbara spun around.

M'gann, Artemis, Zatanna and Roquelle all stood in front of her. Smiling shyly, looking at her with nervous, hopeful smiles on their faces. There were tears in Miss Martian's eyes.

"Hi," Zatanna said. She let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob.

Barbara heard the same sound bubble out of her own throat. They all rushed forward. Arms wrapped around each other, laughing and crying. It had been over a year since she'd seen all of her friends together; for a while, she thought she'd scared them away for good.

"Holy $#*%, girl," Roquelle laughed. "What did you just do?"

"That was awesome," Artemis said, grinning.

"And terrifying at the same time!" Zatanna added.

M'gann just squeezed her tighter. "I missed you."

Dick watched the girls from a few feet away. His fists clenched, then unclenched, then clenched again. His veins were still pumping adrenaline through his system. It was a normal reaction; he'd just faced down a room full of angry metas…and punched Superman in the face.

"Dude!" Wally shouted. He smacked Dick on the shoulder. Hard. "You just punched  _Superman_ in the  _face!"_

"Indeed." Kaldur raised an eyebrow. "Are you alright, old friend?"

"He'd better be," Roy said. (Red Arrow, not Arsenal.) "He just decked a full-blooded Kryptonian."

Dick rolled his eyes, and heaved a sigh. "I get it, guys. I clocked the Man of Steel. Moving on…"

Wally snapped his fingers, and his eyebrows shot up his head. "Moving  _on,"_ he parroted, "How'd it go? With Babs?"

"I, uh—"

The second Flash plowed on, grinning. "Cause I just wanted to be the first to congratulate you, man! It's a big deal. Part of life, and all that." He wedged his elbow into Dick's ribs, and grinned. "So? What'd she say?"

Kaldur cocked his head to the side. Roy raised an eyebrow. "What's going on?"

Dick removed Wally's elbow with a grimace. "See, the thing is…I…haven't had the chance yet."

" _What?_ Dude!"

"Things keep coming up," he said, half-shrugging. "I'm just waiting for the right moment."

"Moment?" Kaldur demanded. "What moment?"

"Yeah, what—" Roy cut off sharply. Then, his eyes widened behind his mask. "Ohhhh. Grayson, you sly dog…"

Wally shook his head, clicking his tongue. "Excuses, excuses. Never fear, buddy. We can do this right now! Rip of the ol' band-aid."

He cupped his hands over his mouth. "Attention, everybody! Batman has an announcement to—guh!"

Dick clapped a hand over the speedster's mouth. His panicked gaze swept the room. The girls had stopped crying and giggling, and glanced over in confusion. He waved, forcing a smile. They shrugged, then continued their conversation.

"Wally!" Dick hissed. "I'm not doing it here!"

Roy shrugged, then glanced up at the doorway. Green Arrow was waving a hand, and he let out a sigh. "Well, mazel tov, buddy," he muttered. "Y'know. Whenever you get around to it. I'll catch you guys later, okay?"

He hurried off. Dick removed his hand, and Wally frowned.

"Hey," he said. "If I could do it  _literally_  the same day I came back from the dead, you can grow a pair and do it, too!"

"Please, man." Dick buried his face in his hands. "I'll get around to it, okay? I'm just…"

Wally scoffed. "What, scared?"

His hands came down. "Yes! Yes, Wally! I'm $&#*%*& terrified!"

The speedster instantly mellowed out. He shot him a sympathetic frown, then patted his shoulder. "Hey. I'm sorry. I'll lay off. Do whatever works for you, yeah? Whenever you're ready."

Dick sighed, then managed a smile. "Thanks, Wall-man. Feel free to stop by Gotham anytime, okay?"

"You mean, as long as I don't  _interfere_ in your important vigilante business, right?" Wally winked, and shot him a pair of finger-guns. "Definitely. As long as I'm the first to hear as soon as you  _do_ pop that question."

Kaldur glanced back and forth at them, like he was watching a tennis match. He frowned, and rolled his eyes. "I am afraid I am not following. How does one 'pop' a question? What are the two of you talking about?"

Wally sighed, smiling, and looped his arm over Kaldur's shoulder. They walked out of the room slowly, and Dick could hear the speedster say, "Alright, so listen, buddy. Up here on the surface, we have this thing…when two people love each other very much…"

Dick sighed, and looked down. He flicked the lid off one of his belt pockets, and gazed at the small black velvet box inside. Maybe…

"Dick."

He looked up, and hurried to close the flap. "Babs? What is it?"

Barbara hurried over, and grabbed his hand. Her eyes were wide, scared. "I can't find the kids, Dick. They're gone!"

 

 

* * *

 

**_A LITTLE WHILE EARLIER:_ **

 

* * *

 

 

The Batkids stuck together like magnets.

They drifted towards the couches that had been set up in the center of the Hub, but didn't bother to make eye contact with anyone, or offer up anything in the way of conversation. Not that that stopped anybody.

Bart zoomed over to Tim. The youngest speedster had been a lot happier since Wally's miraculous return from the Speed Force, and twice as hyper. He was practically vibrating in place as he wrapped his arms around Red Robin and whooped.

"Woo! The Bats have  _arrived!_  Now it's a p-party!"

Tim grimaced. His ribs were still sensitive. "H-hey, Bart."

Steph saved him, reaching over to peel his arms off of her brother. Instead, Bart switched to her.

"Oops!" he giggled. "S-spoiler alert!"

" _Oof!_ Heya, Bart!" She grinned, and squeezed him back. "How much, exactly, have you had to drink, buddy?"

"Too much," Jaime said, stepping over. He shook his head, and shared a smile with Cassie, who was gripping his arm tightly with one hand, and balancing a paper cup in the other. "We're thinking Gar and Terra spiked the punch. You know,  _again."_

Cassie smiled down at Damian. "Aw! Cuuute! Tim, you didn' tell me you 'ad a baby brod-ther!" She hiccupped loudly, which pretty much confirmed Jaime's suspicions about the punch.

Damian's face tightened, but he didn't say anything, thank goodness. The first and last time Steph had ever dared use the 'c word' on the kid, he'd gone ballistic. Luckily, Babs had stopped that fight before they could kill each other. But it had been close.

Jason snorted, and nudged the youngest with a grin. "Yup. That's D—er, Robin. Our baby brother."

"Aw, relax, Jay," Steph said. She took off her sunglasses with a flourish. The things were ridiculous, anyway. Who honestly wore sunglasses  _indoors?_ And worse yet, at  _night?_ "Everybody and their dog knows who we all really are. Well, probably not their  _dogs,_ but y'know. Still. I think it's safe to say that we can all remove the shades, yeah?"

Her brothers exchanged a glance, then simultaneously took off their sunglasses.

"Wow," Jason said, blinking. "Much better."

"Yeah. I never really got why you Bats were always wearing those around." Connor Kent wandered over. His hands were jammed into his pockets, and he wore a shy smile. Out of all the original Team members, Superboy was the only one who still hadn't joined the Justice League. But the guy didn't seem to mind.

He was trailed by a short kid, and his half-cousin, Kara Zor-el, also known as Supergirl. When she saw Stephanie, Kara squealed.

"Girl!" she cried, flying forward. She wrapped her arms around Steph's shoulders, and since Bart still hadn't let go of her, he was sandwiched between them. "It has been  _way_ too long!"

"I. Know. Right?" Steph gushed. "You're looking so good! How's Metropolis? I hear you got that job with  _Kat Grant!_ "

"Metropolis is good! And Ms. Grant is…heh,  _also_  good. What about Gotham?"

"Ha! Dark, damp and dreary. Not that that's anything new. I'm actually applying for this internship position with—"

Cassie seemed to pick up on their excitement and reached over. She gripped a handful of Kara's blonde hair in her fist, and gazed at it, fascinated.

"Gorge-ous!" she slurred. "I wanna raid it. Braid it. You too, Steph. Let's go braid hair, okya…okay?"

Kara giggled. "Sweetie, you are  _hammered!"_

"Eh, we can humor her." Steph said, enthusiastically. "Let's do it!"

She unwrapped Bart's arms, and transferred him to Jason, who protested loudly. But she was off giggling with her fellow heroines before he could return the speedster. Instead, he just looked down.

"Um. Hi, Bart."

Bart looked up, sleepily, and giggled. "Hood. Good Hood. Hood…good…"

Jason looked up at Jaime, then pointed a finger down at his new belt. "Dude," he said. "I'll have whatever he's having."

Tim rolled his eyes. He turned to say something to Damian, but his little brother was no longer at his side. A quick panicked sweep of the room placed him over near Superboy, so he moved to stand near Conner. The kid who'd been following him was shaking Damian's hand with a wide grin.

"I'm Jon," the kid said. "What's your name?"

Damian's expression was controlled. Tim could tell he was resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Damian Al Ghul Wayne, son of Batman."

Tim thought it was a bit strange; Dami never gave out his full name, and usually didn't tag on the 'son of Batman' bit unless he was trying to assert his superiority. Or impress somebody.

And apparently it worked. The kid's eyes bugged out. "Whoa! No way!  _Your_ dad's Batman?"

"Tt. Of course."

"That is  _so_ cool! My dad's Superman!"

Tim's jaw dropped. So did Conner's.

"Did you know about this?" he asked Superboy.

Conner was too busy staring at the kid to answer. Damian's smirk was a mile-wide, as the kid continued to bounce up and down.

"Hey! Our dads are friends, right? That means we should be friends, too!"

"Indeed," Damian said, still smiling smugly. He locked eyes with Tim, and his grin only widened.

"Awesome! You should come visit sometime in Smallville! My mom makes the  _best_ apple pie. You've gotta try it…"

He and Damian wandered over to one of the couches, and sat talking. Jon was animated, while Damian only smiled and nodded. Tim couldn't help but wonder what the little demon's angle was this time… He turned to Conner, ready to make another attempt at conversation.

But before he got the chance, he was roughly shoved to the side.

"Coming through, folks! Coming  _through!"_

The man sauntered past, arms waving at his sides. He turned his head, and winked back at Tim and Conner. "Say, you boys happen know which way the meeting hall would be?"

Superboy crossed his arms tightly over his chest. "Maybe. Why?"

He turned, and Tim was almost blinded by his suit. It was bright, glittering gold, and sent little sparkles of light reflecting all over the floor around him. A navy blue star sat smack dab in the center of his chest, and Tim realized who he was talking to with a nauseating twinge in his stomach.

"Well, boys," the man said, blinding them with a snowy-white grin, "I'm on my way to the top. And the  _top_ would be the League. They're voting on my submission right now, actually! Best not be late to my own induction, right?"

Tim frowned. "Um, you're actually not allowed in until—"

"Which way?" the man demanded. His grin never slipped.

A small gold robot flew through the air, and hovered by his head.

" _Sir,"_ it said,  _"I don't think they're ready for you yet. They're interviewing the ones called Batman and Batwoman right now."_

The man guffawed (Tim never knew what a  _guffaw_ really was, until he heard the sound that came out of this guy's mouth). "Nonsense, Skeets! When they realize who I am, they'll drop everything. Trust me."

If robots could sigh, this one definitely did.  _"Booster, sir, I really don't think—"_

Suddenly, the lights blinked out. There were gasps and cries from all over the room as they were all plunged into near-total darkness. Then, they felt the entire Watchtower shudder underneath their feet. Tim's stomach jerked up to his throat as he felt the entire Tower lurch downward. Everyone screamed.

From the girl's couch, Kara stood up quickly. Probably to fly out into space, and save the tower from falling out of orbit. But Steph reached up and stopped her. She shook her head, and kept twisting Cassie's braid with her free hand.

"Aw, don't bother, hon," she said breezily. "It's almost over."

Kara gaped. "It's almost—?"

"Mmhm." Steph didn't even look up from the braid as she counted down on her fingers. "Five. Four. Three.  _Two_ …" She clicked her tongue, and the lights flickered back on. The Watchtower was no longer falling.

"What was that?" Conner demanded.

" _Skeets!"_ the gold man shouted. " _Nooo!"_

He knelt on the floor, cupping his tiny gold robot in both hands. The little red light at its center had blinked out completely. Now, it was just a hunk of metal and wires.

Huh. The Tower's Blackout Protocol. Presumably, only Bruce had known about it (and, consequently, every single one of his partners), and it could be used to shut down every system and piece of machinery on board. More likely than not, Batwoman had keyed in that code as a scare tactic. And, probably, to keep Cyborg from trying to interfere with anything she was going to do afterwards, since his internal computing systems would be offline for the next little while. Smart.

But not too great for any sentient machinery nearby.

"This is unacceptable!" the man wailed. "I can't lose you, Skeets! I can't! Don't leave me!  _Amaaaaazing Graaaaace, how sweeeet the souuuund—"_

Conner's eyes widened. So did everyone else's.

_What the actual—?_

"Mister Gold?" Tim said.

The man sniffed, and continued his mournful rendition. So Tim tried again.

"Booster! Booster Gold!"

This time, he looked up. His nose was running slightly, and his eyes were filled with tears. "W-what?"

Tim knelt down by Booster's side, and took the robot out of his hands carefully. "I can fix it," he said.

" _Him."_

"What?"

"Skeets. Him. He's…" Booster sobbed. "Is he going to make it?"

Tim waved a hand, and the other Batkids perked up. They excused themselves from their different groups, and wandered over. When they saw the robot, Jason stifled a grin, Steph raised an eyebrow, and Damian rolled his eyes.

"Guys," Tim said. "What's the verdict?"

Steph wiggled her fingers. "Lemme see."

He passed the robot over, and signed a brief message with one hand. Her eyes widened slightly, then she nodded, catching on immediately.

"It's not lookin' good, Doc," Steph said solemnly. She cradled the robot carefully, and shot Booster a sad glance. "We'll need space. And a few minutes."

"Really?" Booster's eyes widened. "B-but…you can fix him…right?"

Jason shook his head sadly. "We'll do the best we can."

"But," Tim interjected. "Tell you what. We'll tell you exactly where to go to find the meeting hall, and while you're talking with the League, we'll fix your little buddy here right up."

Booster sniffed. "You mean it?"

"Tt." Damian's eyelids drooped. "Of course we do. Now, leave."

Jason gave him the instructions, and Booster hurried off, suddenly as chipper as ever.

"Huh," Conner said. "That's one way to get rid of a guy."

Steph sighed in relief, and started to make her way back to Kara and Cassie. Jason and Damian turned to leave, too. But Tim cleared his throat, and they all turned.

"Guys," he said, already wrist-deep in robot guts. "I'm gonna need your help. This circuitry isn't like anything I've ever seen before."

Jason was incredulous. "Dude. We already got rid of the annoying singing-disco-ball. You don't  _actually_ have to fix the $*%& thing."

Steph winced. Tim could tell she was on the fence. "Weeell…"

"C'mon." Tim raised an eyebrow. "Like you guys aren't dying to see what's inside a 25th century robot."

That did it. They were hooked. Jason went and scooped up their uniform bags, and dumped them by Tim's knees. The Bats rifled inside, looking for their belts, and the necessary tools for tinkering with strange machinery.

As they jammed styluses, tweezers and magnifying glasses into the belly of the tiny robot, they started to draw a crowd. Kara and Cassie—heads fully braided—wandered over. Jon stuck close to Conner as they stared at the delicate procedure going down on the Hub floor. Jaime was holding Bart up, who muttered something under his breath about his stomach not feeling too good, then sped out of the room. Blue Beetle rolled his eyes, and kept watching the Batkids at work.

The circuits  _were_ unlike anything they'd seen before. But, they were still circuits. And in the end, the robot's little red light blinked back on.

" _What are you doing?"_ It asked, still full of tweezers and soldering irons.  _"This does not compute…where is Mr. Gold?...Does not compute…does not compute…doesnotcompute…"_

The robot's voice began to get faster and faster. The Batkids pulled back, and exchanged wide-eyed glances.

"Did we…uh…break it  _worse?"_ Steph asked.

"Dude," Jason said. "What's it doing?"

Tim held up his hands. "Okay, okay. Let's just try it again, alright? Go back a few steps, and just—"

Skeets's hatch slammed shut all on its own, and everyone jumped.

" _Command sequence initiated: ‘Go back’…initiating…"_

"Drake," Damian said, brows raised. "What did you do?"

The robot buzzed violently, and their crowd of spectators all took a hurried step back.

" _Initiated. Travel sequence initiating…"_

Steph's head shot up. "Travel  _what!?"_

There was a brilliant flash of gold.

Then, the Batkids were gone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dick rushed out of the meeting hall after Barbara.

They passed a man in dazzling gold, who was arguing with Wonder Woman.

"C'mon, Wonder Lady! I'm  _Booster Gold!_ I  _deserve_ a seat at your table! The  _things_ I could tell you about your future—!"

"Go bother someone else," Diana sighed. Her eyes were scanning the room for Cassie and Donna Troy, both her Wonder Girls.

They pushed past Superboy and Superman, who were arguing loudly.

"You've had a  _son,_ this whole time! And you  _never bothered_ to mention it before now!"

Clark gripped Conner's shoulders. "Where is he? Why would you even bring him here?"

Jon hurried up and pushed between his father and surrogate big-brother. His eyes were wide, and he whimpered, "D-Dad…Kon…please don't fight…"

Superboy snarled, and pulled out his cell phone. He flipped it on, and shoved it in Superman's face. "See this? Kara got one too! You told us where to find the kid, and said to bring him here for the summit!"

Clark gripped the phone. "I didn't send this! Who sent this?"

He looked up, and zeroed in on Dick and Barbara. His eyes narrowed, and started to glow red. "You."

Barbara squared her jaw, and marched right up to the Kryptonian, completely unafraid. Dick trailed after her, face set.

"Where are they, Clark?" Batwoman snarled. " _What did you do?"_

Conner took a step back. He and Dick shared a worried glance.

"Dick," Conner said, nodding.

"Hey, SB." Dick nodded right back. "You seen my brothers and sister around?"

Superboy grimaced. "Well, actually—"

Batwoman gripped the front of Superman's costume in both fists. "I get it! I crossed a line! But we are  _done playing,_ Clark! If you did  _anything_ to them, I'll swear on my cowl to tear your  _eyes_ out and  _shove them down your throat_  so that you can see my kryptonite batarangs  _tear into your stomach_!" Barbara shouted, and landed a blow in Superman's chest. He grabbed her wrists, wincing from the resulting pain, and squeezed. She cried out.

"Batwoman," Clark said sternly, "Stop it. I didn't do anything to—"

She cut him off with a sharp headbutt. His nose was unaffected, but he still let out a grunt as his head snapped back.

"Should I step in?" Conner said, already taking a step forward. But Dick threw out a hand to stop his friend, and shook his head.

"Babs isn't serious. Just worried." He glanced over at Superman. "And he's mad, but Clark won't hurt her. Right?"

"Uh…right. Pretty sure."

"Okay." Dick crossed his arms over his chest. "So I guess this is what you'd call an  _impasse."_

Dick felt a slight tug on his cape, and glanced down. Jon Kent was staring up at him with wide blue eyes.

"Hey," the kid said, "You're Batman, right? Damian's dad?"

He started. "Um. Yeah. Well, I'm not his  _dad,_ per se, but…did you see where he went?"

Jon nodded, eyes bulging as he waved his hands. "He was fixing this robot with the others, and all of a sudden, there was this huge yellow flash! And then they were just gone!" The poor kid actually looked pretty worried, and said, "D'you know where they went?"

Dick's gaze travelled upwards, towards Booster Gold. He was still trailing after Wonder Woman. But the robot who usually followed him everywhere…Skeets…was nowhere to be found.

Robot…yellow flash…disappearance…

Dick swore. Loudly.

Barbara and Clark both glanced over. Batwoman's fist was poised above his face, and Superman's hands were up in a gesture of surrender.

"Babs!" Dick shouted.

She scowled. "What? I'm almost—"

"Booster Gold!" he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Booster. Gold."

The bedazzled hero perked up at the sound of his name. He rushed over, and struck a pose. "You called?"

Dick shoved him out of the way. Barbara rushed to his side. He put his hands on her shoulders, and his tone took on a desperate note.

"I think I know what happened to the kids."

 


	11. Blast From the Past Part 1

 

Tim peeled himself off the grass, letting out a moan.

He felt like he'd been hit by a truck—unfortunately, he knew from  _experience_ —and his entire head hurt bad enough to implode. What made it worse was the blinding light surrounding them on all sides, pressing against Tim's corneas until he was ready to scream.

And the others didn't sound like they were in much better shape.

Steph was groaning.

Damian was muttering something under his breath in Arabic.

And Jason was splicing together a series of curses and dirty words that would have made Alfred blush. His older brother reached out and nudged Tim's shoulder sharply, earning a small squeak of pain. He blinked, trying his best to clear his eyes, and their surroundings started to come into fuzzy focus.

"Guys," Jason growled, moving to shake the other two. "Get up. We're not in Kansas anymore."

Tim gaped as his vision cleared.

They were back in  _Gotham._

Robinson Park, to be exact. Grass, trees, sidewalks, jogging paths…the whole nine yards. Except…

It seemed… _different,_ somehow. Tim could have sworn there'd been a playground over by the duck pond. And…there weren't supposed to be this many trees. He was pretty sure there was supposed to be a rose garden somewhere… And where the heck was that gazebo thing Bruce had helped build a few years back?

The sound hit him next. Laughter and shouting and chatter; the kinds of sounds that came from large crowds. Tim glanced over his shoulder and saw a sea of people across the park from them. Brightly colored tents had been set up all over the place, and he could even see a few rides and food trucks lined out.

Steph sat up next to him, eyes narrowed to slits. "What the actual $#!%?"

"Carnival," Jason muttered. "Man, they haven't done one of these things in…"

His eyes bulged, and he slowly eased himself back onto the ground. "Guys…it's pretty sunny out, isn't it?"

Damian was rubbing his head, and glaring up at the oak tree they'd landed under with malice. He pulled a leaf out of his hair, and flicked it away. "Yes, Todd. It  _is_ a rather nice day. Your  _point?"_

It seemed to hit Steph first. "Wait. He's right, guys. Look at the trees…they're  _green. …_ I thought it was September?"

Tim bolted upright. "You guys!"

All eyes were on him, and he cleared his throat.

"The robot! Booster Gold!" He raked his fingers through his hair with a moan. "Can you put those pieces together, or should I spell it out?"

Damian scowled. "Don't patronize us, Drake."

"No, kid," Jason muttered, realization lighting up his face with horror. "He's right. We're—"

Stephanie screamed.

It was so earsplitting, that a few people on the edges of the carnival crowd turned to stare. But that didn't stop her. Jason clapped a hand over her mouth, and pulled her close. He muttered something into her ear, and her eyes fluttered shut. Tim waved over to the crowd, and called out.

"Sorry to bother you, folks! We're just working on our improv!" He bowed a little, and the stares disappeared. "Alright, Steph," he added, quieter this time. "Are you done?"

She whimpered, but nodded, eyes still squeezed shut. Jason hesitantly removed his hand.

Damian was watching the Ferris wheel through narrowed eyes. "Ah. I see," he said. "We have travelled in time. Forward or back, though it seems impossible to know for certain thus far—"

Steph's eyes snapped open, and she scowled. "Y'know, you're the only kid I've ever met who can say 'thus' with a straight face."

"—but what I  _do_ know, is that we have Drake to blame for this mishap!"

"Pfft.  _Mishap."_

Jason shushed her, then said, "Look, kid. You're right. Timmy just  _had_ to dig around in the future-robot, and it looks like that's what made us pull a Marty Mcfly—"

"Tt. I don't understand that reference, Todd." Damian glowered.

"Yeah? Well. Your loss, little man. Like,  _big time_. But like I was  _saying,_ Timbo here might be responsible for all this crap—"

Tim crossed his arms with a huff. "Gee. Thanks, Jay."

"— _but,_ instead of pointing fingers, I say we start focusing on the real problem here:  _Where's that $% &*!%# robot?"_

At that, all of them fell silent. They stared at each other like they were expecting someone to volunteer the answer.  _Oh, hey, I see it. It's right over there by the cotton candy machine!_ But of course, no such luck.

Booster Gold's robot—Skeets—had transported them in time. If they were lucky, they were only a few months away from the present. If not, well…

Tim sighed. They had to find that little hunk of metal.

Steph cleared her throat. "Well? What are we waiting for, huh? Let's go find the $#&$ thing." She pulled herself to her feet, and planted both fists on her hips. "And I say we start with that sweaty crowd over there. Best place to start looking."

Tim stood. "You just want to go play some dumb carnival games, don't you?"

Jason snickered. Steph looked downright offended.

"Ah! I will have you know that those games—although they are rigged—are pretty ^%&# fun, Tim Drake. Besides. Where else can you get those giant stuffed teddy bears, anyway? Pretty sure they pull those guys out of another dimension of something…" She blew a strand of hair out of her face. "And to answer your question, Tim.  _No."_ She sniffed. "I want a corndog."

Damian was incredulous. "A  _corndog?"_

"Uh,  _yeah._ Don't know about you boys, but the last time I ate could've been, like, a  _bazillion_ years ago, for all we know. Add that to the fact that we've got a lot of detective work ahead of us, and I can't do my best detectiving on an empty stomach."

Jason laughed. "Well. In that case, it's decided. Let's head on down to the party."

 

 

* * *

 

 

To say that Batwoman had gone into full 'mama-bear' mode would have been putting it gently.

As soon as the words 'I think I know what happened to the kids' left Dick's mouth, she seemed to reach the same conclusion. Barbara dropped Superman and whirled around with a snarl. The Leaguers and younger adults and kids backed up quickly as she stalked towards Booster Gold. Before the bedazzled man had the chance to react, she'd already seized the front of his costume in two fists. Booster's back hit the wall with a smack. He let out a shrill scream.

"Five seconds, Gold," Barbara said through her teeth. "Tell me where our kids went, or I'm kicking you so far back in time you're going to see the late Cretaceous Period!"

"The…" Gold sniffed. "The what?"

"Dinosaurs," Dick clarified. He crossed his arms over his chest, feigning nonchalance.

Wally was at his side in a heartbeat. He tapped Batman's shoulder. "Uh…you okay with this, man? We're all on the same side here."

"Yeah. Well. Babs usually takes 'bad cop'." He shrugged, and glowered. "And we need to find out where the others are before they mess something up in the timeline."

Wally's eyes widened. "Oh crap."

Booster Gold was shaking so hard that his teeth were almost chattering. "I-I don't know…where's S-Skeets?"

Barbara raised an eyebrow under her cowl. "Don't know, Gold. When did you last see him?"

"T-there was this short kid with b-black hair. He said he'd fix Skeets after the blackout and…" The man sniffed again, and Dick resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Barbara groaned through her teeth and glanced up at Batman. The two shared a weary look, and Batwoman dropped the 25th century man like he was hot. Booster slid down the wall and landed on the floor. He let out a sob and covered his face with his hands.

Barbara stepped over towards him. Her shoulder brushed his, as she leaned in and muttered, "Timmy. He and the others must've offered to take Skeets after the blackout."

"Probably to get rid of Mr. Sparkles over there," Dick added under his breath. She nodded in agreement, sighing.

"And you know Tim. He'd never pass up the chance to tamper with future-tech."

"Tweaked the wrong circuit and  _boom."_ Dick's eyes shut for a second or two, then he looked over at Booster. "They could be anywhere. Any  _time."_

The Leaguers had stood by their partners and family members, watching the show and waiting for results. But now, a few of them tensed, and glared at the duo. Batman and Batwoman had been so focused on their missing kids that they'd forgotten all about nonverbal communication. Not to mention the fact that they were in a room full of superheroes—most of which had incredibly good hearing.

Clark cleared his throat, and drew himself up to full height. "Excuse me, you two," he said sternly. "But is there anything you'd like to share?"

Diana's eyes were narrowed. As she spoke, her Amazon accent was especially pronounced. "Your partners are trapped in time. How long will it take for them to make a mistake that alters the course of history?"

"We could be looking at a total timeline change!" Barry's eyes widened as a panicked look washed over his face. "And believe me. I know that drill."

Barbara glowered at the heroes, and Dick let out a growl that was uncannily Bruce-like. It made Clark's eyebrows rise up his forehead.

"They won't change the timeline," Dick snapped. "They're not going to do anything stupid."

He and Barbara shared a brief glance.

_Who were they kidding? Of course they would. It was only a matter of when…_

Barbara opened her mouth to add to Dick's statement, but she never got the chance. A brilliant gold flash filled the room, and everyone winced. As the light faded, a little gold robot zoomed over to Booster Gold and bumped up against his head.

" _Sir!"_ it chirped. " _I appear to be online once again. Despite the best efforts of a gang of miscreant saboteurs, that is!"_

"Skeets!" Booster cried. He wrapped his arms around the little robot and squeezed, drowning the poor machine in a mass of muscle and spandex.

" _Sir…release me, please."_

Barbara was over in two strides. Her hand darted out and she seized one of the bot's shining fins in her gloved fist. Booster let out a gasp of indignation, and tried to get to his feet. Batwoman planted a boot in his chest and pressed him back down against the wall. Then, she yanked the robot out of Gold's grasp.

"Skeets," she growled. "Where did you take them?"

" _Take who? Those meddling delinquents?"_

"Yes.  _Where_."

The bot buzzed a little.  _"One of them activated my travel sequence. I took them back in time. But my programming dictates that I must be at Mr. Gold's side at all times, so therefore I was able to jump forwards to the present and—"_

"#*$&," Batwoman spat. "You just  _left them there?"_

" _What else was I supposed to do?"_

She released her hold on the robot, and dug the heel of her boot deeper into Gold's chest. "Let's just make this easy, then. Unless you want me to punch your teeth in, tell us how we can find them.  _Now."_

He gulped. Barbara watched his Adam's Apple bob. "I…uh…"

"Trust me man," Dick said with a sigh. "Don't tempt her."

An idea seemed to strike the shiny superhero. He straightened out a little, and reached for his wrist. Barbara tensed out of instinct, but relaxed when he unclipped it and handed it to her with a placating gesture.

"H-here!" he said. "Skeets has to stick with the cuff. If one of you wears it, you can control the jumps at will. Finding them will be easy, I swear!" He flinched. "Please don't ruin my perfect face, scary Bat-Lady."

Batwoman glowered, then clamped the shimmering cuff around her wrist. "Tell me how it works."

"R-right. Um. Press the button on the side to travel, then think of a place you want to go—"

"Are you serious?" she demanded. "How does that even work?"

"I don't know!" Gold threw out his hands. "It just  _does!"_

"Fine." She twisted her wrist. Light bounced off the cuff, and she could see her scowling reflection in the gold metal. Dick's hand landed on her shoulder as he said, "And to come back?"

"If you want to come back here, then just think of  _here._ Honestly, Skeets, it's like they don't even know  _basic_ technology."

" _Neanderthals, sir,"_ Skeets agreed.

Barbara grit her teeth. "Great. Looks like you're coming with us, then, Siri."

" _I think you misunderstand. My name is Skeets."_

Dick sighed. "Wow, Babs. It's like it has no concept of basic technology."

Wally let out a laugh from behind them, and Booster's face went red.

"Just…take care of him, okay? Please? I can't lose him again and—"

Barbara pressed the button.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"How's the corndog?" Jason asked, smirking.

Steph's eyes were closed in bliss as they walked along, so he had to steer her around the Gothamites wandering through the booths and stalls and rides. She was clutching the stick like her life depended on it, and she let out a satisfied moan. "Iss 'o 'eaven-ee."

Damian rolled his eyes. "Tt. No one can understand you, Brown."

She swallowed hard and glared at the kid. "'It's so heavenly'," she translated. "And you're just jealous, demon-baby. Toldja you should've got one too, you know. You're no fun when you're hangry."

"He's no fun at all," Tim muttered. His eyes were tracing up the Ferris Wheel distractedly. He'd been glancing around the carnival, checking the crowd, the booths,  _everything_. Mannerisms. Clothing styles. Anything to give him some sort of clue as to  _when_ they were. But so far, he hadn't had much luck.

The clothes of the people around them were a little outdated, but nothing like he would've expected. No bellbottom pants or poodle skirts to be seen.

"See anything yet?" Jason asked. His gaze was panning over the crowd, too. Searching for that stupid little robot.

"Ooh," Steph said, brightening. "I spy with my little eye something shiny and yellow."

They all perked up.

"Is it Skeets?" Tim demanded.

"Tt. Brown's probably staring at that fried Twinkie booth."

She shook her head with a smirk. "Sadly, none of the above.  _But,_ I do see something almost as good." Her finger jabbed out towards something peeking above a ring-toss booth. "A  _clue_."

They squinted, and saw a golden gleam. As a group, they all rushed around the corner, and found themselves at the very center of the carnival. The whole thing seemed to be set up around a golden statue. It depicted a bird in flight, wings outstretched to the sky. I's tail feathers rested on a base that was spiky and cubic—skyscrapers, Tim realized. The statue was a phoenix rising out of Gotham City.

And, judging by the red ribbon and metal stakes set out in a ring around it, it was brand new. This whole carnival was probably just one big dedication party.

"See?" Steph's hand swept out as she gestured to the sculpture. "I may not be an expert on Robinson park, but I'm counting on the fact that our walking encyclopedia over here knows exactly when this little beauty was erected."

Jason nudged Tim's shoulder. "Think she means you, Timbo."

Tim was staring up at the glinting sculpture. "I've been here probably a thousand times," he muttered. "But I've  _never_ seen this before."

"Ludicrous," Damian snapped. "It's right there, don't you see? When was it built, Drake?"

"I…" Tim gave the metal another once-over, and gulped. "Guys. What if…we didn't travel  _backwards?"_

"No," Steph said, shaking her head. "No way. This isn't future-y enough to be the future. There'd be, like, flying cars and stuff. And everybody would be wearing really stupid one-piece suits or something. No, Tim. We went back. I know we did."

"Yeah?" Tim's voice was weak. His eyes never left the statue. "Well, I promise. This sculpture doesn't exist in our time."

Jason opened his mouth to say something, then started. His eyes flew open wide and he clapped a hand over his back pocket with a smack.

They all turned, and saw a small kid with his hand deep in Jason's pocket. His long black hair fell over his face, but they could all see the wide eyes behind the dark curtain. "I...um…"

Jason's face had gone deathly pale. He'd removed the boy's hand from his pocket, and held onto his wrist tightly, staring with an open mouth. The kid struggled a little.

"Hey! Muscles!" He protested. His bowery accent was thick, and Tim instantly pegged him as a resident of the Narrows. "Let go 'a me!"

Steph shook her finger in the boy's direction. "Hey, yourself! You were pickpocketing! Didn't your parents ever teach you about stealing, kid?"

Jason's face lost even more color. His free hand crept back to his pocket, and he pulled out his old leather wallet. The thing was ancient; he'd had it forever, and the surface was covered with tiny cracks and chips. After he'd died, Bruce had kept it in Jason's room, and he'd reclaimed it as soon as he'd stepped foot back into the manor.

They all gaped as he handed it over to the kid. Tim's jaw dropped even further when he saw that the leather was uninjured—completely brand new.

The boy seemed just as shocked as they were. But Jason's voice was soft as he leaned down slightly, and said, "There's about two hundred in there. That should keep your old man off your #$$ for a little while."

The kid's eyes widened. As he recoiled, his hair flew back from his face. The Batkids got a full view of his pale bruise-covered skin. "H-how—?"

"Doesn't matter," Jason said easily. He lowered his voice, and leaned in a little closer. "Just promise me something, okay?"

The boy rolled his eyes and his shoulders. "Yeah, yeah. You're gonna say I gotta be better. Make somethin' more 'a myself than this. Trust me, Muscle-man. Ain't nothin' I haven't heard before."

"No." Jason's jaw was set as he muttered, "Three weeks. He's gonna try and drag you to one of his 'meetings' with his mob buddies. Don't go. Get out of the apartment the night before, okay? Promise."

"You're crazy, man. I oughta start screaming. Get the coppers over here."

"Nah. You won't do that. You hate coppers." Jason frowned. "Just promise me."

"Uh…sure, buddy. Whatever you say."

"And another thing." Jason's eyes narrowed. "In five years, pay Two Face a visit. Steal some cash. As much as you can. And while you're at it—" Something like a smile played at the corner of his mouth. "Just remember that tires go for a lot on the black market, okay kid?"

The kid gave Jason a funny look, then yanked his hand out of his grasp. "Dude. The #$%% are you  _on?_ Thanks for the dough, but I've gotta—"

"He's just a washed up #$%(*$#. You don't owe him a # ^$& thing, got that?" Jason straightened, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Keep half the take. Get yourself some food or something. Okay?"

"Sure. Yeah." He turned, and hurried off into the crowd. But not before he called over his shoulder, "Get some help, buddy!"

He disappeared into the crowd. One minute there, gone the next. Almost…bat-like.

The others were all gaping at their older brother. Jason's gaze stayed fixed up at the golden statue.

Steph's jaw hung down to her knees. "Oh... Was…was that…?"

"Todd?" Damian cocked his head to the side. "What—"

Jason only shrugged. "Don't know what you're talking about," he said easily. There was an undertone, though. A slight edge. Just a warning not to press the issue. "But I think I know where we are, now. 'Cause of the statue."

"The statue?" Tim raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, Timbo. The  _statue._ Just watch. You'll see."

Steph was nodding to herself. "Okay. Things are officially starting to get weird."

Tim gaped at her. " _Now_ it's weird?"

Jason shushed them. "Just watch.”

They stared up at the statue, blinking in the sunlight that reflected off its shiny surface. Tim sniffed the air and smelled fried food and sweaty bodies. Children ran past their legs, laughing and fighting over cotton candy as their parents apologized and chased after them. Somewhere, there was corny carnival music playing from a set of speakers, accompanied by the sharp staccato of a tiny roller coaster ride over by the face painting booth.

It was Damian who snapped first. "What exactly are we watching for, Todd?"

Tim couldn't help but agree with the tiny devil child. "It's not exactly going anywhere. What—"

Two women descended from the sky. One with a set of flaming rocket-anklets (jet boots?) and the other with a set of giant white wings. Jet boot girl had bright candy-blue hair and a neon orange muzzle-mask. Her winged partner was taller, and wore a tight iridescently red bodysuit.

Both of them carried cans of spray paint.

Jason smirked. "See? Just keep watchin'."

"People of Gotham!" Wing Lady cried. "Behold the golden idol to your city's corruption!"

Blue girl shook her can of spray paint. Even from the ground, Tim could hear the ball bearing clank around inside. The paint hissed out, and covered the gold in long sweeping red arcs. Wherever it touched, the metal bubbled and hissed, letting off curls of steam as it dissolved.

"We are the artistic avengers of this fallen city!" the lady in red continued, waving her arms. "And we will cleanse you all of your arrogance!"

She threw her own spray paint can onto the ground a few meters away from the Batkids. It exploded in a ball of fire, and the crowd finally started to realize that they should be running away. Wing Lady cackled, and lobbed can after exploding can into the crowd. Screaming ensued as people stampeded in the opposite direction. Shoulders hit into the Bats as the sea of carnival-goers fled.

They all exchanged a glance. Jason shook his head, but the others reached for the zippers to the duffel bags on their backs.

But before they could get to their belts, a burst of smoke exploded off Wing Lady's chest. She coughed, doubling over. Blue girl's eyes widened.

"Pigeon!" she cried.

Tim recognized the name. An old-school Gotham villain. 'Aggressive street artist' might have been a better term. She'd terrorized the streets of Gotham and its artistic community with her younger partner, the Defacer, at her side. But that had been back in—

His eyes widened.

"Hey Pigeon!" A girl's voice called out. "Didn't ever peg  _you_ as a bird hater!"

A cackle floated over the scene, next. It was impish, and kinda scary at the same time. It sent chills down Tim's spine.

Another pellet exploded. This time at the Defacer's feet. She coughed as she was enveloped in curls of heavy smoke.

A boy's voice— "Why don't you try picking on a bird your own size?"

The Batkids watched with wide eyes as a caped figure leapt off the top off a nearby booth. His army boot connected sharply with the Defacer's jaw, and she went down with a cry. Pigeon's wings unfurled, and she let out a snarl. But before she could fly to her partner's defense, a black shadow jumped out at her.

"And why not try a bat for a change?"

Pigeon went down with a cry as the shadow collided with her chest. She landed in the dust a few feet away from the Bats, and they backed up quickly. The winged woman wrestled in the dirt with a caped figure, and Steph's eyes widened slightly when she saw the two bat ears that extended from the girl's cowl. The girl growled, and started to wrench Pigeon's arms behind her back.

But the woman was having none of it. She seized the girl's wrists in both hands, and leapt upwards. Her wings snapped out, and she careened into the sky, letting her prey cling onto her hands for dear life.

"Robin!" the girl shrieked. Her cape and red hair snapped in the wind.

Damian looked up in surprise. So did the boy fighting the Defacer.

"Aw, dangit," the kid muttered, reaching for his belt. He wore a Robin costume unlike any of the earlier models Tim had seen before. (Short sleeves? Really?) He sidestepped a punch from his opponent as he dug into one of the pouches. He pulled out a grappling gun—very old-fashioned—and pointed it at the air.

Defacer started to come up behind him, but he threw up a fist without even glancing back. It caught her in the face, and she went down in a heap.

"Hold on!" the boy shouted. He pointed his gun to the sky.

_Pfft._

A line shot out with a whir. The pronged end of the grapple wrapped around Pigeon's ankle and pulled taut. He yanked it down sharply, gritting his teeth, and the villain let out a cry as she jerked slightly downward.

"Fine, boy wonder!" she cried, recovering. "You want your girlfriend back so bad? Here you go!"

Pigeon wrenched her hands out to the side, and released her hold on the girl. She fell through the air with a scream, cape flapping behind her.

"No!" Robin dove forward. He rolled as he caught the girl, but still kept a tight hold on the grapple gun.

The girl let out a cry, and gripped her yellow gauntlet to her chest. She laid the back of her cowl back against the dust and grimaced, eyes screwed shut. Robin stood quickly, and pulled down hard on the line.

Pigeon screamed as she hurtled toward the ground. She hit the dirt with an explosion of dust and feathers, and Robin panted. He moved over to yank Pigeon's arms behind her back, and pulled out a pair of cuffs. "They've got a cozy bird cage in Blackgate just for you, Beatrice," he muttered. "And you're gonna be staying for a long time."

"Ah," the girl gasped.

"What is it?" Robin asked, clinching the cuffs shut. "Batgirl?"

"Wrist."

"Broken?"

"D-don't think…"

He scowled. "Then walk it off."

"Sure thing," Batgirl said, sitting up with a glare. Then, under her breath she added, " _#*% &$."_

Robin yanked Pigeon to her feet. "What was that?"

Batgirl waved a hand and moved over to the Defacer. She clipped the girl's wrists together behind her back, and pulled her upright. "Nothin'. Just called Pigeon a 'witch'."

Behind his domino mask, his eyes narrowed. "Yeah. Sure."

They could hear sirens now. A small army of GCPD officers flooded out from between the booths and rides, guns at the ready. Defacer stirred a little bit, then jumped. "Bea!" she cried. "I can't go back to juvie!"

"It'll be alright, Shawn." Pigeon glowered as a pair of officers tugged her away from the Boy Wonder. "We'll be out soon enough."

"In your dreams," Robin called out, waving.

Batgirl handed her charge off to another set of officers, then rubbed her wrist with a grimace. She glanced over at Robin, then paused. Her eyes drifted over to Jason, Steph, Tim and Damian. All of whom were staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the scene in front of them. (Except maybe Damian, but Tim could tell he was still in shock.)

"Hey," she called out, jerking her chin up. "Take a picture. It'll last longer."

Robin put a hand on her shoulder, and steered her away. He was watching them warily over his shoulder, as if the expressions on their faces made him nervous. "Uh…all in a day's work, citizens. Have a nice day."

They hurried behind a 'wheel of prizes' booth. Just like that, they were gone.

The Bats waited for the GCPD to disperse. When the area was completely clear, Steph exploded.

"You guys!" She threw her hands out to the sides. "We just witnessed the  _originals in action!_ Holy crap, they're so freaking  _colorful._ We must've traveled to before they figured out the whole bat-fashion-sense…and… _"_ Steph giggled. "Batgirl and Robin! Holy crap!"

Jason was smirking. Tim supposed he'd known what was coming, after all. He just shook his head, still trying to process what he'd just seen.

Dick and Babs. As Robin and Batgirl.

Before any of them, there had been the first two. Bruce's original partners. The ones who'd started it all.

Without the two teens they'd just seen in action, none of them would be standing underneath the now-ruined phoenix sculpture. (Tim was guessing they'd tear it down, now. All the was left was a mass of steaming, melted metal.) They definitely wouldn't be standing in Gotham, together, each toting their own uniforms in bags tossed over their shoulders.

Damian snapped his fingers twice, grabbing their attention.

"I think," he said smugly, "That we all know our next step?"

Steph lowered her arms. "Uh. No. Not following, Dames."

The kid smirked, and clasped his arms behind this back. "Clearly," he continued, "We are searching for a needle in a haystack. A robot amongst a city full of technology, and we are unable to track its signal."

Realization hit Tim like a truck. "He's right. I'm not sure if our wrist computers will even work. The signal we use…hasn't even been  _invented_ yet."

" _But._ We know who  _can."_ Damian's smug grin widened. " _And_  we know just where to find them."

They all exchanged a glance. Smiles of realization started to climb up their faces. Then, Steph squealed.

"Aw,  _yiss!"_ She punched a fist into the air. "To the Batcave!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Aaaaaaaah! Babs! BabsBabsBabs!"

Dick was practically climbing onto her shoulders as she tapped frantically at the button on her wrists. She gave a growl of frustration. "I'm trying!"

They were walking backwards as fast as they dared, trying to get away from the huffing mass of fur and teeth in front of them. The saber-toothed tiger watched them through slitted eyes, as if trying to decide what these two creatures in batsuits and Kevlar would taste like, and if it should bother giving chase. Its ear twitched at the sound of the snow crunching underneath their boots. Then it let out a low chuff.

"Try harder," Dick muttered, panicked. "We're not going out like this!"

"Well,  _you're_ being incredibly helpful!" She snarled, tipping up her chin. Barbara wasn't talking to Dick, though. Skeets beeped, which she assumed was robot laughter.

" _It isn't_ my  _fault that you aren't able to properly operate the device. I do hope you brought condiments, though. That feline looks somewhat famished."_

Barbara slammed her finger down on the button again, and the cat's ears perked up. "Listen, you little tin can! If we die, you're trapped here too!"

" _Hnnn. I suppose you're right. Try pressing gently on the button, and picture a place and time in your mind. Is that elementary enough for you?"_

"You little…I  _did that!_ So why are we in the Stone ages? First the Velociraptors, now this?"

" _Perhaps your thoughts are not specific enough. Mr. Gold always knows how to channel his intent into—"_

"Oh, yeah. Booster Gold," she muttered. "A  _paragon_ of clear thinking."

Dick whimpered when the saber tooth growled low in its throat. They backed into a cliff face, and felt a few loose pebbles tap against the tops of their cowls. "Now or never, babe."

Barbara pressed the button, and the light flashed in her eyes once again.

When it dissipated, she and Dick landed hard on their knees. Wet concrete underneath their fingers was more than enough to hint at a more-or-less modern setting, and they looked up. It was a dark alley, this time, and judging by the smell and the steam floating in the air, it was a Gotham alley. They pulled themselves upright, then froze.

At the end of the alley, there were four people in a standoff. Two parents stepped in front of their son, arguing in low voices with a ragged looking man. Their backs were to the two Bats and the robot, thank goodness, but Dick and Barbara recognized the scene  _immediately._

"Oh. Oh,  _$#*%,"_ Dick hissed. "Babs. We can't  _be here."_

"Let's start with the pearls, lady!" The man growled. The woman—Martha Wayne—cried out, and a million shining beads clinked against the rain-soaked pavement mere moments before an earsplitting gunshot pierced the air.

Barbara froze.

_That…that voice…?_

"Babs." Dick eased her finger onto the button. "We have to  _go."_

Another golden flash.

She and Dick pulled themselves to their feet, leaning on a green marble counter for support. Both let out painful groans, then glanced around the fancy room. Still no sign of their kids, but they definitely weren't alone.

All around the room, chairs pushed out and guns whipped up, clicking as they were readied. Mobsters, judging by their outfits. And, Barbara noticed, judging by their body language, they were all waiting for the 'okay' from their boss. She and Dick raised their hands into the air, slowly.

A woman seated at a nearby table heaved a dramatic sigh and slammed her hand of cards down as she stood up. She was gorgeous; long light red hair curled immaculately under her chin, clinging silver dress. She wore a heavy black fur shrug, and a diamond choker around her neck. All of which were high fashion back in Old Gotham—Bruce Wayne's pre-teen days. As she turned to them, her blue eyes pierced like knives.

"Honestly?" she demanded. "I was just about to win this hand, and you clowns pick  _now_ to interrupt?"

Her eyes raked over them, inspecting up and down. Then, she smirked. "Gotta say. The Halloween costumes are a nice touch. But a tad over the top, don'tcha think? Now. Who are you, what do you want, and who had the  _gall_  to send you into my territory?"

Batman glanced over at Batwoman, jaw slack and eyes wide. He seemed to be asking her a silent question. One she wasn't sure if she could answer herself.

Because this woman looked almost  _exactly_ like Barbara.

The hair was lighter, her face a little more pointed and wolf-like. But the piercing eyes were the same. They had the same lips, same nose, same smug smirk.

The woman threw out her hands. "A _hem?_ I'm  _waiting?_ Who's your boss? Nygma? Ozzie? Falcone?"

Barbara swallowed, then said, "No. We…we don't work for any of them."

"Just passing through. So if you'll excuse us…"Dick said, pulling himself up a little higher. He eased slightly to the left, then paused as a dozen guns whipped over to aim at his head. "Uh. 'Kay, then."

A few chairs away from the woman, a girl huffed and threw her own cards down. Her hair was short and curled around her head in a halo. Couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen. She peered at them through lidded eyes, and smirked. "Aw, let 'em go, Barb. Let's get back to the game."

The woman pursed her lips. "Selina, hon? Remember what we talked about?"

Selina Kyle groaned, and tipped back her head. "Your house, your rules. I  _got_ it, I  _got_ it. But do you  _really_ wanna waste your time on a couple of weirdos dressed as devils? I mean, c'mon!" She waved a hand dismissively. "They wanna go so bad? Let 'em go. They're not hurting anybody."

Barbara could practically hear Dick's head exploding. They both lowered their hands, and she turned out her palms and put on her best soothing expression. "She's right. We just stumbled into the wrong room. Please. Just let us go on our way."

The woman crossed her arms over her chest. "Yeah? Okay. Give me one good reason, and my men won't put a metric-ton of lead through those devil-masks of yours."

Dick's hand was already moving towards the cuff on Batwoman's wrist. So, she gulped a little, and reached up to take off her mask. It slid off into her palm, and she looked straight into the eyes of one of Old Gotham's most notorious mob bosses. The woman's eyes bugged out when she saw Barbara's face, and she took a slight step back.

"Because," she said, just before Dick could press the button. "My name is Barbara Delphi. I'm your niece."

Barbara Kean screamed, and a dozen guns went off, shattering the glasses of whiskey on the counter.

But the Bats and their robot were already gone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sneaking into Wayne manor was easy enough. They'd 'borrowed' a sedan from the carnival parking, and sped to the city's outskirts as fast as possible. At the house, Alfred wasn't anywhere to be seen, and Jason had his set of lockpicks in his pocket. ("Never leave home without 'em, guys.") They cleared the front door, went down through the hallways, and finally ended up at the old grandfather clock.

The whole way through, they gaped around the house. It was eerie, the way that things were exactly the same, and yet totally different. That vase hadn't been there in the future, and neither had that glass sculpture. Apparently, the rec room didn't exist yet, and the TV in the den was almost laughably old-fashioned.

Jason led the way, reaching up to turn the hands on the clock to the correct time. The whole thing swung to the side, and they all hurried to crowd into the elevator.

The Batcave was like a breath of fresh air. Everything was almost exactly the same, from the giant fake T-Rex to the Batcomputer at the center of it all. Granted, the monitors were a little outdated, and there were a few glass cases missing around the upper ring. Not to mention the strange layout of workout equipment and uniform pieces strewn around the cave. But all in all, the Cave was still the Cave.

Jason's fingers shot up, and they all snapped to attention. He pointed two to the side, and they silently darted across the grated flooring to hide behind a set of display cases with an old-fashioned Batman and Robin suit inside (clearly the first models). Then, Steph let out a laugh.

"Guys, this is so  _awesome!"_

Damian's eyes were wide as they surveyed the Cave. "You could say that."

"Alrighty, then," Jason muttered. "We just have to sit tight until they get back off patrol. Then…yikes. How're we gonna play this?"

Tim pressed his back against the cave wall. "'Hi. We're from the future. We kinda lost track of our time-travel robot, and need you to help us find him. Please stop screaming, I promise we're legit.'"

"Dude," Jason said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is too weird. And there's no way they're gonna know what 'legit' even means."

Steph's eyes bugged out. "Whoa. You guys realize what this means, right?"

Damian was rifling through his duffel with a bored expression. He found his belt and looped it around his waist. "We are trapped in time, Brown."

"No, no, no." She waved her hands. A slow grin crawled up her face. "Think of all the  _memes_ these guys have no idea about! The vines! The slang! They have  _no clue_ what the future's gonna be like! We could totally mess with them!"

Tim rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. Jason shook his head. "Uh…let's  _not."_

"Tell you what," Tim said, standing. "Here's a novel idea. How about  _I_ just go take a crack at the computer, and figure out the signal-tracking myself? We can be in and out in a few minutes, and Dick and Babs'll be none the wiser."

Jason stared at him, one eyebrow raised. "That's…actually not a bad idea, Timbo. It'll even keep us out of the whole 'screw up the time-stream' mess."

Steph opened her mouth to protest, but Tim was already gone.

They peered out and down from behind the display cases, and watched him hurry over to the Batcomputer. He started typing furiously, and they could hear the frantic taps from their hiding place. The screen pulled up a few dozen images. A grid map of Gotham, a few tiny glowing dots…

Tim sifted through the coding. It was…extremely primitive compared with what they used back home. Bruce and Babs had upgraded most of it, but he'd filled in a lot of the cracks too. This system was agonizingly slow and didn't have half the capabilities the future Batcomputer would have.

He froze at the familiar sound of tires screeching on pavement. He threw a glance over his shoulder, and saw his siblings' panicked expressions peeping out from behind one of the display cases.

" _Run!"_ Steph mouthed.

But there was no time for that. Tim slid into place underneath the desk. Thank goodness there was a gigantic vibrating computer console to offer him some cover.

The second he tucked his knees to his chest, two cycles flew into the Cave, tires squealing as they slid to a stop. The motors were humming slightly, then quieted as the two Batkids pulled the keys out of the ignitions. Both slid off their helmets with a sigh, and Batgirl winced, gripping her wrist tightly again.

"Ah," she moaned.

Robin scowled, and slammed his helmet down onto his cycle's leather seat. He stalked past her, bumping shoulders, and headed over towards a set of glass cases on the wall perpendicular to the Batcomputer. With a sigh, he pulled off his mask, and cape, then sat down on a nearby bench to start in on his boots.

Dick's eyes were angry. Tim couldn't help but gape a little as he saw his older brother's face. He couldn't have been more than thirteen, which made him almost five years younger than Tim…who was starting to get a bit of a headache.

The elevator doors dinged open next, and Alfred stepped out with a tray full of bandages and medical equipment. He looked so much younger, too. Less gray hair, shoulders less slouched. He stepped lightly over to Batgirl, and said,

"I understand you have a wrist sprain, Miss Barbara?"

Batgirl reached up with her good hand, and turned a dial on the side of her cowl. It clicked three times, and she slid it off with a sigh. Her red hair was lighter, her face a little rounder, and all around, she was smaller than the Babs he knew. "Yeah."

"May I see it?"

She offered him her arm, and he gently slipped off her glove. Then, he clicked his tongue, disapprovingly at the purple bruises already forming on Barbara's pale skin. "And how did this happen, I wonder?"

Dick yanked off one boot, and tossed it to the side with a huff. "It wasn't me, if that's what you're thinking."

Alfred raised an eyebrow with a frown. "Indeed."

"I didn't touch her, Alf." Dick crossed his arms over his chest. "She got those bruises because she was stupid. As per the usual."

"Hey," Barbara snapped. "I took a fall from thirty feet, &$$#*%# !"

Alfred started wrapping a length of gauze around Barbara's wrist. "Language, Miss Barbara."

"You took a  _fall,_ because you didn't bother to pin Pigeon's wings. That was  _stupid!"_ Dick waved a hand. "She would've killed you. And guess who the boss-man'd blame for that? Here's a hint: not his perfect little princess!"

Barbara jerked away from Alfred, and stomped over towards Dick. The loose gauze trailed like a ribbon from her wrist. "Yeah? Well if I'm so  _stupid,_ then tell me how I managed to find those two wannabes in the first place?"

Dick sprang to his feet and stalked over. "Fluke. Just like always."

"Was it a  _fluke_ when I hacked Cadmus's motion sensors for you?" She snarled, and jabbed her finger into his chest. "Cause  _you_ told all your little super-buddies that you did that all on your own!"

"That's because I did!"

"So not!"

"Did too, B-girl!"

Barbara's whole body jerked, like she'd been electrocuted. Her eyes turned murderous. Through gritted teeth, she hissed. "Don't you  _ever_ call me that, Grayson."

Alfred heaved a sigh. "Would the both of you stop for just a moment? Miss Barbara's wounds need attention, and—"

"That's right, guttersnipe, go get a band aid." Dick taunted, face dark. His tone was cruel as he added, in a low voice, "Wouldn't want daddy to see bruises on your perfect skin, right? Might get jealous."

Barbara's eyes widened in an expression that Tim knew well. He shrunk a little inside his hiding place, because he was about to witness a brutal murder. His older sister let out a screech. "Oh, that is  _it,_ you little—!"

She launched herself at Dick, and the two of them rolled on the grated floor. The shouted, bit, kicked, punched, screamed, scratched, clawed and growled. Barbara's fist connected with Dick's chin. His hand hit into her cheek. Alfred hurried over and yanked both of them up. Barbara by her cape, and Dick by the scruff of his neck.

"Master Dick! Miss Barbara!" He yanked his arms out to the side, forcing them apart. Their hands still reached for the other, trying to rip into each other's faces. But Alfred shook them a little until they stopped, and just glared. "That is quite enough!" the old butler continued. "Master Bruce will be home shortly, and he's nearly as fed up with your behavior as I am! The two of you need to learn how to get along for longer than five minutes. If not, then perhaps some discipline would do you both a bit of good—"

"You sure, Alfred?" Dick muttered. "Cause I think the boss-man's gonna 'discipline' her plenty when he gets home tonight. In fact—"

Barbara's face was red as she bared her teeth. "I will %&$!#%*&  _murder_ you."

"Miss Barbara—"

"How many times do I have to say it before you get it through your  _thick skull?"_ She shook a finger in his direction. "That is  _so_ not what's happening! And you  _know_ it!"

"Shyeah." He rolled his eyes.

She let out a frustrated growl. "Are you serious right now? What are you, five?"

"I'm older than you, so shut the %*#& up."

Barbara lunged, straining against Alfred's grip. "Circus brat!"

Dick snarled. "Street rat!"

"Freakshow!"

"Gutter trash!"

"Carnie!"

"Hobo!"

"Clown!"

"Bag lady!"

"Attention w***e!"

Dick's eyes widened in a mock-innocent expression. "Oh, so  _I'm_ the w***e, now?"

Barbara roared, and ripped out of Alfred's grasp. Dick never stood a chance. He went down in a heap, and the two started rolling around again.

Tim gripped the edge of the humming console with one hand. The other covered his mouth. His eyes were bulging.

He had never seen Dick and Babs like this before…the possibility had never even crossed his mind.

They… _hated_ each other. Tim could see it in their body language, hear it in their tone, feel it in their words. Hate wasn't even a strong enough word for what this seemed to be.

One glance up at his siblings' hiding place reinforced his discomfort. Jason's jaw was almost unhinged. Steph seemed to be on the verge of tears. And Damian was watching with wide eyes and pursed lips. He gulped, and watched his older siblings do their best to rip each other to shreds.

Barbara was the first to draw blood. She raked her nails across Dick's face, and a trio of red lines streaked across his cheek. He snarled, and slammed his forehead against her nose. She cried out, and threw a fist blindly at his face.

Alfred was doing his best to separate them again, but when a boot connected with his shoulder, he winced and backed up. As he rubbed the spot, he watched the fight with wide eyes. Unsure what to do, how to step in. Then, Tim saw his face slacken as he looked up at the computer screens.

"Pardon me, you two," he said, "But did one of you happen to leave the monitors on before patrol?"

Both Batkids froze. Dick's fist hovered over Barbara's face. Her fingers were curled around his neck. At the same time, their heads jerked up. They gaped at the screens, and pulled apart, standing shakily.

"Brat-girl," Dick panted. "You're  _supposed_ to put the system to sleep when you're done."

She wiped at a dribble of blood on her lip. "You were the last one to use it. Don't look at me."

A line appeared between his eyebrows as he stepped forward. His fingers flew across the keys, and Tim could hear the clicks and taps. Dick's knee was just a few inches away from his face. He held his breath.

"That's weird," Dick muttered. "I don't recognize this login.  _Override TMBW1946?"_

Barbara stepped over, frowning. "That's Bruce's emergency access PIN."

"Of course you'd know that."

"Do me a favor? Shut your face hole."

More typing. "Well, Bruce hasn't been in the Cave since  _last_ night. So…"

Both of them backed away from the Batcomputer like it was about to explode. Their eyes were sweeping the room, and Tim shrunk down tighter.

Big mistake.

Barbara's eyes caught the movement and fastened on him. She jumped. "There."

Dick's hand reached under the desk, and wrapped around his ankle. Tim didn't even fight it when he was pulled out from underneath the desk. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked into the wide eyes of his butler, and his teenaged brother and sister.

Barbara screamed.

Dick screamed.

Tim screamed.

"Who the #$%% are you?" Dick demanded. He pulled a birdarang from his belt and jammed the tip against Tim's trachea. "How did you find this place?"

Slowly, Tim raised his hands. "I…uh…" He swallowed hard, and cleared his throat. "I'd tell you. But there's no way in #$%% you'd ever believe me."

Barbara's eyes narrowed to slits. "Try us."

The birdarang pressed harder. "We know how to get answers."

Jason popped out from behind the display cases, and stepped up to the railing. He waved his arms down at them and grinned. "Uh…hey! Look! More intruders!"

Steph and Damian followed him hesitantly, and wrapped their hands around the metal rail. Steph managed a weak smile, and waved brightly. "Hi! We come in peace!"

Barbara's hands curled into fists. "It's those weirdos from the carnival," she said.

"Hey!" Jason protested.

Dick swore, then pulled Tim onto his feet. For a kid who was at least a foot shorter than Tim was, he was surprisingly strong. "Fantastic. Still doesn't explain how they got here." He glared up at Tim. "Did you follow us?"

Tim's hands were still up. "N-no.'

"Alrighty, then. 'Nuff of this," Jason muttered. He climbed up onto the railing, then jumped. Barbara surged forwards with a gasp, but froze when Jason rolled on impact, and popped up expertly. Steph and Damian followed, landing in perfect form.

Batgirl took a step back. "What the—"

"Aw, fantastic. They know what they're doing," Dick said. "BG, you take the blonde and the short one. I'll take white-streak dude."

Jason's eyebrow quirked at that. "Seriously?"

Damian was indignant. "I am taller than you are!"

Tim grunted as Dick's elbow slammed into his gut. He doubled over, out of breath. His brother surged forward and leapt into the air. His feet came down on Jason's shoulders and he kicked out. Tim recognized the move, vaguely, but it didn't work. Jason didn't go down, just stumbled a little and lunged for Dick.

Batgirl raced towards Steph and Damian. Her boot flew towards Steph's jaw, but the blonde girl reached up easily and seized Barbara's ankle in both fists. She wore a bored expression as she twisted her older sister's foot, throwing her off balance. Damian's hand darted out and struck Barbara's shoulder.

She hit the ground with a smack. Steph pinned her there under one foot.

"We don't wanna hurt you," she soothed. "We just need to talk!"

Barbara's eyes were wide as she stared up at the stalactites. "Hey, Dick? Did we just get pwned in five seconds flat?"

Dick couldn't reply. Jason had him in a headlock. He chuckled, and squeezed a little tighter. "You're so…tiny, dude. It's adorable."

"What do you want?" Barbara demanded.

Steph reached down, and helped her up. Then, she turned to her brothers with pleading eyes. "Can I just tell 'em, guys? Please? It'd make this all  _so_ much easier."

Tim sighed, and straightened out. His gut was gonna ache for a while, but he'd live. "Fine, Steph. Go ahead. Figure we've screwed the timeline enough already."

She practically bounced in place. "Okay. Oh my gosh." She giggled, and put a hand on Barbara's shoulder. "You are so  _cute!_ I didn't know you used to have freckles! And you're so short! I didn't know you were ever this short, and—"

Barbara raised an eyebrow.

"Brown," Damian snapped. "Get to the point."

"Right. Um." Steph cleared her throat. "Okay. So, do you guys have a Booster Gold in your time?"

Batgirl's eyebrow crept higher. "That annoying yellow guy who's always trying to get a picture with Batman? Yeah. Why?" Her eyes bugged out as it seemed to hit her. "Wait…"

"So…we kinda accidentally messed with his robot, and ended up back in time." Steph smiled, and pointed two fingers at the ground. " _Here,_ to be exact."

Tim glanced over at Jason and Dick, whose face was turning purple. "Jay, he can't breathe."

Jason released Robin, and he fell forward, gasping. He rubbed his neck and pulled himself upright.

"So," he rasped. "What? Are you saying you guys're from the future or something?"

"That, my dude, is  _exactamundo,"_ Steph said brightly. "Funny story? I'm actually the Batgirl of the future. This little guy here—" She shook Damian, who growled. "Is future-Robin. The guy you pulled out from under the desk is Red Robin. And white-streak guy over there is the Red Hood. That's how we knew how to find this place. We kinda  _live_ here."

Judging by the looks on their faces, that news didn't sit well. Barbara's eyes were wide, and she slowly raked her fingers through her red hair. Dick was nodding and staring off into space.

"Okay," he rambled. "This isn't weird. At all. I literally just fought Red Tornado's brother and sister, so this isn't the weirdest thing that's happened to me this week…"

"You sure about that?" Barbara asked weakly.

"We understand this is a lot to take in," Tim said softly. "But we need your help. We've gotta find Booster Gold's robot so that we can get back to our own time. I was trying to track the signal, but—"

"Easy enough," Barbara squeaked, still staring blankly ahead. "I can go run the…I can go look for…I'll go do that."

She wandered over the Batcomputer, zombie-like, and started punching in commands. Dick cleared his throat.

"Okay. So. Red Robin, right?" He nodded to Tim, and stuck out a hand. "Name's Dick Grayson. That's Barbara. We don't know her real last name. If you don't mind my asking…who are you guys? I mean, really."

Tim's expression softened. He accepted the handshake with a hesitant smile. "We know your names, Dick. You're actually the one who helped Bruce train us. My name's Tim Drake."

"Jason Todd."

"Stephanie Brown."

"Damian Wayne."

Barbara paused, and she and Dick both glanced over at Damian with raised eyebrows. Silence ensued as the two original Batkids shared a wide-eyed look.

"Ooh-kay, then." Barbara shrugged and turned back to her typing.

"You're…Bruce's son?" Dick asked, softly.

"Tt." Damian tipped his chin up. "Obviously, Grayson."

Dick nodded to himself, frowning slightly, and shrugged. "Not even gonna question it at this point, honestly. Well. Nice to meet you guys. We'll do our best to get you back home, okay?"

There was a sound above their heads, and Barbara looked up sharply at the ceiling. "Incoming."

Dick tensed. "You guys should hide."

"Why?"

Barbara frowned, and tapped the spacebar. Security footage of the manor's front door popped up onto the screen. The Batkids all got a great view of Bruce Wayne, debonair billionaire playboy, passionately making out with a red-headed young woman in a tight-fitting blouse and pair of jeans. As they pulled apart so that Bruce could open the door, Tim stared at his father's face. It had been so long…

But then, he saw the woman's face. Steph let out a horrified shriek.

Dick and Barbara both scowled up at the screen, and shared a long-suffering glance.

"Welp," Barbara muttered, "Looks like he brought Vulture Lady home again."

 


	12. Blast From the Past Part 2

 

Barbara had had harder landings, so she wasn't too off-put when she faceplanted in a sand dune. She could hear Dick groaning next to her, coughing the sand out of his mouth. Her own tongue was covered in the rough sediment. She shook her head and pulled herself up to her knees.

Nighttime. The first thing she noticed was the darkness. The second thing was the light; slivers of the moon reflecting off of shimmering waves.

The third thing she spotted was the brilliant circus tent just over her partner's shoulder. Red, white, and golden. Dick grimaced as he peeled himself off the sand, and pulled down his cowl. Now nothing stood between her and those wide blue eyes of his.

"Barbara Kean," he wheezed. Then, cleared his throat.

She turned her head and started brushing away the clinging sand from her suit.

"Barbara Kean," Dick said again. "Blackgate's toughest Mob Queen…psychotic narcissist… psychopathic killer… _that's_ your aunt." He coughed out the last of the silt and shuddered. The moon bounced off his irises as he stared her down. "Babs. Why didn't you tell me?"

She winced as she got to her feet, and swept the scene with her gaze. Looking for any hint of gold in the sand and reeds. Skeets was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's the robot?" she demanded, searching. She whirled around and around. "Dick?"

He'd pulled himself up to full height. His boots brushed against the sand, and his hand was on her arm before she could react. "Babs," he said.

She kneaded the inside of her cheek between her teeth and levelled a scowl at him.

"We'll find it." His eyes searched her face. A worried line appeared between them. "But first. Why didn't you ever say anything?"

"Oh," she huffed. "Like that would have gone over well."

Barbara spun out of his grip, and glowered at the ocean. She wrapped her arms around herself and bit down on her tongue.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She forced herself to remain expressionless. Already, she could hear him coming up behind her.

"Babs?

"Should I have mentioned it that night, when Bruce found me? 'Hi. I know you want to take me in and everything, but you should probably know that I'm the niece of Gotham's greatest mobster. May as well kick me back to the curb now.'" She laughed, but it was dry and emotionless. "Or how about when I first put on the cape and cowl? 'Yeah, boss-man. Thanks for the job and all, but your partner's right to hate me. I've got 'murder blood'. Only a matter of time before I show my true colors.'"

His arms crept around her, and she shuddered a bit, but didn't fight. Dick wrapped her in a tight embrace, resting his chin on the top of her head. They stared out at the bouncing waves together. And when he spoke, she could feel the low rumble in his chest.

"How many times," he said gently, "Do I have to apologize for our Batgirl and Robin days?"

Her eyes squeezed shut. "Dick."

"No. I wanna know. So that I can tell you I'm sorry, however many times it takes to make it right." He squeezed her gently, and let out a sigh that ruffled through her hair. "I am so sorry, Barbara Delphi, that I made you feel like I hated you. Like you couldn't talk to me about this."

She leaned back into his chest with a sigh. "It was a two-sided thing, you know."

"Mmm."

"I kinda hated you, too."

"It wasn't a contest."

"Sure it was. Everything was, back then."

"Hmm."

They listened to the ocean, and to the faint announcer's voice from the circus tent. From this distance, it was impossible to make out the words. But the faint rumble seemed to comfort Dick, and he relaxed into her. Barbara wet her lips and said, slowly,

"I never really knew her. I probably only met her once, if even that." She listened to Dick's hum of encouragement, and she went on. "But as soon as I heard her name on the streets, found out who— _what—_ she was…I… _used_ it."

His breath staggered a little. "What?"

"I used to have people who looked after me. Kept me safe. Fed. Clothed. Healthy. But when I was eleven, there was…it doesn't really matter." She trailed her fingers over Dick's wrist and frowned. "After that, I was alone. And. Being on the streets, when you're an eleven year old girl…" Her face twisted in a grimace. "I did what I had to, threw that name around when I needed it. And for the most part, people left me alone. Because they were afraid of the big bad Barbara Kean. At least, most of them were."

"That's over. It's been over for a long time, Babs." Dick's voice was soft. "Bruce found you. He brought you home."

"Yes." Her eyes were stinging. She didn't want to talk about this—she'd  _never_ talked about this. Not to anyone. "But. I had a family before that. And now…" Barbara twisted her face to look him in the eye. "They've come back, and I don't know what to do, Dick."

The line between his eyebrows returned, and his mouth twisted downward. Behind them, there was a soft beeping noise. Probably Skeets, but neither of them moved to go and check.

"What do you mean?"

Barbara bit her lip. "I—"

" _Imbeciles!"_

Skeets burst out of the sand with a puff, and zoomed over to them. His red light blinked angrily and his whole metal body was buzzing.  _"I have sand in my circuits! Where are we now? Huh? Do the two of you even care where it is we've landed this time?"_

Barbara glowered at the robot. "I don't know. Batman pressed the button this time. I guess we're wherever he was thinking about."

"I just thought 'Gotham'," Dick said, shrugging. "And, I was a little distracted by the whole 'my girlfriend's aunt is a mobster' thing."

"Hey." She bumped her fist against his shoulder.

He smiled at her then shrugged again. "So, we're probably—"

A loud sound from the circus tent made them both pause. All three time travelers turned towards the source, and Barbara noticed Dick tensing up beside her. His face had drained of all its color, and he opened his mouth slightly. A silent gasp.

It didn't take long for her to realize that the long, loud, drawn out sound was the people inside.

Screaming.

"Circus," she muttered. "Oh. Oh %&#. We're—"

Two tears brimmed in Dick's eyes. He let out a small whimper as they traced down his face. Slowly, he backed up, shaking his head. "N-no. No. I can't—" Dick gasped. "I can't be here. I—I have to—we have to go—"

Barbara slammed the button hard. She thought ' _Gotham',_ just like every other time before. Vague, perhaps, but all they knew for sure—from what Skeets had told them—was that their younger siblings were somewhere in Gotham, somewhere in time. The golden light swirled around them, but her thoughts flashed with loss and pain as she saw the anguish on her partner's face.

So, when they landed, and she got a good look around, Barbara wasn't really surprised.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Hoo  _boy!_ Somebody get me a bucket of popcorn, 'cause $#^%'s about to go  _down!"_

Stephanie cackled and took command of the Batcomputer's swiveling chair. The others crowded around her as they stared up at the largest screen. The younger Dick and Barbara had hurriedly changed into their civilian clothes, and booked it upstairs as fast as bat-ly possible. Luckily, though, they'd left the time travelers the manor's security feeds. For their viewing pleasure, of course. Now, Stephanie barely held back her giggles as she watched her older/younger siblings trail behind Bruce as he toured Vicki Vale through the manor's hallways.

"…from my great-great-great grandfather's shipping company," Bruce droned. He wore that familiar fake-proud smile that he usually saved just for press and reporters. 'Bruce Wayne, billionaire, golden son of Gotham' and all that crap. "But today, Wayne Enterprises focuses mostly on technological and scientific development. We're working right now on a cable that can—"

Vicki Vale was very good at keeping a poker face as she beamed and nodded. Behind Bruce, though, Barbara's jaw was coming unhinged from a yawn. Dick shared a glance with her, and put two fingers up to his temple, thumb sticking out. He clicked his tongue and jerked his hand up.  _Kill me now._

But then, right as they stepped into the library, Vale whirled around and bared her teeth at the two kids.

"Bruce, I am truly  _fascinated_ by your company's work," she gushed. "WE has made leaps and bounds that I'm sure the  _Gazette_ would love to cover. But while I'm here, I wanted to ask you about some of your charity work. Particularly your altruistic move to take these two darling children under your wing."

She reached out and pinched Dick's cheek.

Barbara's lips twisted as she fought a smirk, but Dick's eyes screamed  _murder._

Stephanie couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of her throat. She could hear Tim and Jason chuckling behind her shoulders while Damian huffed once out his nose. (That was about as much of a laugh as they really ever got out of the kid anyways. At least without violence or bloodshed.)

Bruce frowned slightly, but only for a second before the billion-dollar smile was back. Clasping his hands behind his back, he said, "Alright, Vicki. What would you like to know? I'm an open book."

There. There it was. That little grin that Steph had seen from their last run-in (future run-in?) with the Vulture Lady. The triumphant smirk of somebody who was about to get exactly what they wanted, and boy-did-they-know-it. Vale perched herself on one of the library's armchairs and crossed her ankles daintily. Her notebook was out in the blink of an eye, and the Bats warily sat themselves down on the couch across from her.

"Dickie, hon? I notice that you and Barbara are a little dinged up!" Her smile was shark-like. "Where did those bruises come from? And what happened to your little friend's wrist, hon?"

Barbara scowled and glanced down at her wrapped wrist. Dick scrutinized the little discolorations on his arms. Then, he shrugged.

"Bird-watching accident."

The reporter's eyebrows shot up. "Bird-watching, huh? And how does that happen?"

"We fell," Barbara said curtly.

"Out of a tree," Dick added.

She took that down, smirking, then looked back up. Her eyes met Bruce's for a fraction of a second, but the billionaire didn't even flinch. So, she switched targets.

"So tell me, Barbie-doll," Vale crooned, "How would you describe your relationship with Bruce?"

Barbara's mouth puckered a little at the nickname, and Dick snorted.

"Uh…" She raised an eyebrow at her mentor, who only shrugged one shoulder in response. "Good?"

Vale scribbled something down. "I see. How 'good' is it, doll? Does he buy you presents? All the clothes you could ever want? Jewelry, maybe?" A wry smile crept up her face.

Bruce shifted in his seat, suddenly on the defensive. He opened his mouth to say something, but Barbara cut him off.

"I'm thirteen," she snapped. "Not six. I know what a 'sugar daddy' is, lady. And for the record, uh,  _no—_ " Barbara pounded the word out with a sideways glance at Dick. "That is  _not_ how I would describe my 'relationship' with Mr. Wayne. At all."

Vale's eyes widened. "Oh, no, sweetie. I wasn't implying anything like that. At all."

"Weren't you? Now, Vicki, you know you're the only woman in my life." Bruce said softly. He shot Barbara a small smile, then frowned at Vicki. "To answer your question, these two and I have more of a mentor/mentee relationship. My butler, Alfred, and I are working to give them better, healthier lives. We saw two children in need, and decided to do something about it. So right now, we're teaching them life skills and providing them with the education that they'll need to become their best selves. True contributors to society."

Stephanie and Jason both snorted. The other two sighed. 'Best selves' and 'contributors to society' apparently meant dressing up as bats and running around on rooftops. But hey, tomato, to-mah-to.

Bruce leaned forward in his seat. "Let's move on then, why don't we?"

"Yes," Vale smirked, curling her fingers underneath her chin. "Let's. Tell me, though, Brucie. What kind of skills  _are_ you teaching them? I'm dying to know."

He backpedaled. "Well, you see—"

Tim squinted at the screen. "We gotta bail them out."

"With you one-hundred percent," Jason said, shrugging. He leaned against the chair and nodded up at the feed. "But how are we supposed to do that without screwing things over more than we already have?"

Steph's eyes wandered over to the handheld phone sitting by the keyboard. It sat on a little charging-port thingy, and looked about a million years old. But it'd do the job. She snapped her fingers, and shot a grin at her brothers as she reached for the ancient phone. "Leave it to me, Bat-boys."

Her fingers tapped at the number pad, and Tim cleared his throat over the little beeps.

"Steph—" he warned.

"I've got this, Timmy," she said, waving a hand. The cold plastic pressed up against her ear as she listened to each dial tone. "They did call me 'the Spoiler' for a reason, ya know?"

Up on the screen, the Vulture Lady's purse beeped. All eyes fastened on the bag, and Vicki shrugged it off with a smile. "I'll let it go to voicemail," she said breezily. "I never answer calls during an interview."

"Tt. Way to go, Brown. They should have called you the 'minor inconvenience'." Damian rolled his eyes. His face was  _so close._ Stephanie could have just reached out and caught him with a sharp jab to the nose—like something out of a Wes Anderson movie. (She and Babs had watched a few of those together, and they laughed at every single cheap shot.) It'd be so easy…

"The only 'minor inconvenience' I see around here, kid, is Y-O-U," she mumbled. Her fingers tapped at the numbers again. "Just trust me. M'kay?"

"How did you get her number in the first place?" Tim asked. He leaned forward, and watched the people on the screen turn to stare at Vale's purse again. The reporter's lips pursed.

"Please." Jason chuckled. "We're… _us._ And we've been prank-calling her for weeks."

Vulture Lady thought Jason Todd and Stephanie Brown were dead. (Heck, she'd never even  _met_ Steph.) Ergo, there was no way for her to recognize their voices. Once you stirred an untraceable bat-phone into the mix—well, in their defense, was there any  _better_  way to use an untraceable phone?

Answer: absolutely frickin' not.

Steph called again. And again. And again. Each time, Vale cleared her throat, and tried to press through her interview. But the interview-ees' attentions were clearly on the ringing purse. Once Stephanie had dialed Vale's cell fourteen times, the reporter finally let out a growl of frustration, and jammed her hand down into the bag.

"If you'll excuse me for just a second."

Bruce nodded. "Of course."

She flipped open the phone with a snap of her wrist. (A flip phone! She could hear Tim snickering when they saw it.) With teeth bared in a smile, she pressed the phone to her ear and snapped, "Yes?"

Steph cleared her throat. "Hello, Ms. Vale? This is Stephanie Brown, assistant to Mayor Hady's secretary. I was just calling to remind you about your appointment with the Mayor today at two."

Up on the screen, Vale's face visibly paled as she glanced up at the clock on the mantle. The big hand was a little past the nine—which left exactly thirteen minutes until two o' clock.

"The Mayor's finishing up his preparations for the interview, now. I hope traffic hasn't been too much of a hassle for you, since your punctuality is imperative. The Mayor has three more meetings after his two o' clock, and we here at the office just wanted to remind you that this is your last chance to get an exclusive on his latest campaign."

The reporter's mouth opened and closed. "I beg your pardon? I don't have an appointment—"

"Ma'am," Steph said, keeping an even customer-service-like tone, "Your name is Vicki Vale, is that correct?"

"Yes, this is she, but—"

"Well, then, I've got you down for his two p.m."

Vicki Vale bolted to her feet. "I want to speak to the Mayor's secretary."

Jason cleared his throat, and held out his hand for the phone.

"I understand," Steph said drily. "Just one moment, please."

She held the phone away from her ear, and tapped her finger on the desk twelve times. Twelve seconds of silence. Then, she passed it on to Jason. He accepted it with a flourish and a smirk, and pressed it up to his ear.

"Hello?" he said, lowering his voice. "This is Hady."

They watched as Vale's face drained of all color. "M-m-Mayor Hady," she said.

"Yes? Is this Ms. Vale with the  _Gotham Gazette?"_

"Yes, it is." Vicki swallowed hard.

"Excellent! Then I'm guessing you're on your way to my office as we speak, is that correct?"

"I—"

"Because we've got this little guy in our lobby right now, says  _he's_ our two o' clock. Short fella, from the  _Herald."_ Jason waved his hands as he spoke, and rolled his eyes up towards the ceiling. "My secretary must have made a mistake with scheduling, and double booked me for the hour. So I understand if you can't—"

Vale had perked up at the name of the  _Gazette's_ rival paper, and her eyes narrowed. "Oh, no, Mr. Mayor. I'm almost there, now, actually. I can't wait to hear all about your campaign."

Jason chuckled. "Well, I look forward to our chat, too, Ms. Vale. Take care. I'll see you soon."

"Thank you, Mr. Mayor."

Jason hung up the phone, and waved it triumphantly. "And that, little sibs," he said, smirking, "Is how you do a prank call."

He and Steph high-fived. Tim just gaped.

"T-that's actually  _right,"_ he gasped. "Hady  _was—_ er,  _is—_ running for another term right now. How did you—?"

Steph buffed her nails on her t-shirt. "Well, Timmy, guess we've all got a little 'walking encyclopedia' in us, after all. You're welcome."

They turned to the screen. Vale had rushed out in a hurry, muttering a few goodbyes, then giving Bruce a quick peck on the cheek and a smooth request for a 'rain-check'. As soon as she'd left, Bruce let out a relieved sigh, and placed a hand over his eyes. He pulled out a phone of his own, and checked something on it. Probably the security cams up front, to make sure the Vulture Lady had really left.

Dick and Barbara turned to the library's security cam, gaping. Mouth open wide, Barbara pointed at the library door and shot them a clear look.  _Did you do that?_

But then Bruce looked up, and they relaxed.

"That woman," he sighed, resting his elbows on his knees. "I'm sorry to expose you two to the likes of her, but it's necessary. 'Friends close, enemies closer', and all."

"No prob, B-man." Barbara shrugged. "Well, besides the fact that she's a bloodsucking vulture."

Dick leaned against the back of the couch, arms crossed tight over his chest. "Well, stay 'whelmed, guys. She'll be back. She always is." He shook his head, eyes rolled up to the ceiling. "And vultures don't suck blood, BG."

"It was an  _expression,_ you absolute—"

"Barbara," Bruce said, shooting her a glance. She sighed and slumped her shoulders.

"I think I'm going to take a short power-nap." Bruce stood with a sigh, and shook out his shoulders. "I highly recommend that the two of you do the same, so that you're fresh for patrol tonight. Speaking of, how did this afternoon go?"

Dick rolled his eyes, as Barbara said, "Well, you know. Day-time isn't really our thing."

"And BG managed to $&%# up, as usual…"

Barbara scowled. Bruce cleared his throat. "Dick…"

"All things considered though, it went smoothly." He waved a hand. "Can't wait for tonight."

Bruce nodded, and turned to leave. At the library door, he hesitated, one hand on the frame, and shot them a glance.

"Just in case the two of you had anything to do with Vicki's phone…"

"Promise, B-man," Barbara said, raising her right hand. "We had nothing to do with it."

"We swear," Dick added.

Bruce raised an eyebrow, but didn't press the issue. "Well, alright then. I'll see the two of you in a few hours."

"Kay," Barbara said weakly.

They seemed to wait for their mentor's footsteps to fade. Then, as soon as they were convinced that he was gone, they exploded from the couch and burst through the door. A few seconds later, the elevator doors dinged open, and the four future Batkids turned to face the originals as they bolted towards them.

"That. Was. Perfect." Barbara said, eyes wide and beaming.

Dick was nodding. "You totally just saved our lives."

Stephanie waved her hands and smirked. "I accept your gratitude, younglings. If we'd had more guts, we coulda, like, blown up her car or something. Awesome $#^% like that. But you know.  _Literal_ time constraints and all that."

Barbara turned to Dick and jabbed a finger in Steph's direction. "Her," she said with conviction. "I like her."

"Seriously. Thank you." Dick took a few long strides to the computer, and started typing. The security feed was replaced by the map of Gotham that Tim had been working on. Trying to locate Skeets's energy signature. Steph ceded her gloriously comfy throne to the short boy wonder, and watched as his fingers flew over the keys. Barbara came up to her shyly and crossed her arms.

"So," she said, brows raised. "Batgirl."

Steph grinned. "Yup."

Barbara shrugged. Her lips turned down in a small frown. "Guess that begs the obvious question. When do I die?"

"Not soon enough," Dick muttered. He ducked to avoid his partner's blow to the back of his head.

She scowled and shook out her hand. "Better question? When does  _he_ get to die?"

Jason laughed, and planted a large hand on Dick's tiny shoulder. Tim shot him a warning glance, but he plowed on. "Neither one of you dies. You're just, like, wicked awesome older versions of yourselves."

"Totally bad#$$." Steph's head bobbed. "And a heckuva lot taller."

A smile tweaked at the corner of Dick's mouth, and he pointed a finger up at Jason. "Okay. Then answer this. When do I become leader of the Team? How many Robins even  _are_ there? Ooh, and who's gonna win the next Superbowl?"

"He and Wally have a bet going," Barbara explained, shrugging. "But, like, seriously. When do I  _join_ the Team? Why am I not Batgirl anymore? And does  _Dick_ ever stop being a d**k?"

Jason clicked his tongue. "Ah, questions, questions. We—"

"—can't answer them," Tim insisted. "It'll mess things up. Trust us."

Steph raised her hand. "Aw, what the heck, Timmy?" Her finger jabbed towards Robin. "You. Tiny Dick. You become head honcho in a few years…then, uh, five? Are we up to five Robins now, guys?...and I think the Steelers."

"Packers," Jason corrected.

"Right. And tiny Babs: You join up when you're sixteen, and…it's complicated…and, um  _yes._ Like, you have  _no_ idea. There!" She smirked at Tim. "Good 'nuff. Nothing too specific! Except the Packers, but whatever."

"Guys!" Tim whimpered. His fingers were dragging through his hair. He let out a groan. "We're so screwed," he muttered. "We have totally screwed everything over. But at least—"

The elevator doors dinged, and Bruce Wayne stepped out. Tim cut off sharply, and all eyes swiveled over to the Batman. His arms were crossed, and he wore a stern look as his steely blue eyes swept over the Batkids, present and future. The latter group straightened, jaws dropping. Jason and Damian had matching stunned frowns. Steph saw actual tears brimming in Tim's eyes.

"So," their father said, voice low, "Would anyone like to tell me what's going on?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

They landed in a heap behind a pile of white cardboard boxes. The dust on the floor stuck to their boots and gauntlets as they struggled to right themselves, and Dick instantly started sobbing into his fist. The room was dark, lit only by a single lightbulb in the center of the room. But it was so, so familiar. Barbara almost panicked, but instead focused on helping Dick to calm down his breathing.

His breaths were erratic. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and whispered into his ear, stroking his hair with one hand and forcing him to focus on the low, calm sound of her voice. It took a few long minutes, but she finally felt his heartbeat slow. When he was calm enough, she pulled away.

Dick heaved one more shaky sigh and met her eyes. "I'm sick of this time-jumping thing, Babs."

"I know," she whispered. Her fingers twined with his.

"I'm so #^%& sick of it. It's like a 'greatest hits' of our worst…worst memories." He shook his head and scoffed. "Must be this city. This $#&%*#& city."

"I know."

Dick blinked, and surveilled their surroundings.

"I-" He swallowed hard and tried again. "I don't recognize this place."

Barbara's voice was tight. "Babe," she whispered, "It's really important that we stay quiet."

"What? Wh—"

Somewhere, a door slammed open, and Barbara pulled Dick down sharply. They were covered by the boxes, thank goodness, but she wasn't about to take any chances. Not if this was where—or when—she thought it was.

They settled for peeking in between the boxes. It gave them a decent view of the dilapidated storage room. Besides the boxes and bags of food and supplies, and dusty pieces of equipment, there wasn't much in the way of decoration. But there were a few things to suggest someone lived here. A beat-up carpeted couch, a square white plastic sink, and a cracked mirror. Just underneath their peep-hole, there was a rickety canvas cot just wide enough for two girls to share if they curled into each other tight enough.

Two people stepped into the room. A boy—fifteen or sixteen, roughly—who sighed and arched his back a little. He collapsed onto the couch and smiled wanly at the little girl trailing behind him.

She was eleven. Short red hair curled around her face, almost hiding her wide eyes and freckles. She beamed at the boy, and perched herself next to him on the sunken couch cushion. When Dick saw her, he turned to Barbara with wide eyes.

Barbara bit her lower lip, answering his silent question with a slight nod.

"Heya, B-girl," the boy said softly. "Good haul today. But I think we mighta—hey!" He jumped, searching through his pockets with mock-panic. Mini-Barbara squeaked.

"Didja  _lose_ it?" she demanded, wide-eyed. "We worked all  _day_ for that, Cal!"

"I can't find our haul! But…wait…" He squinted, and leaned forward slightly. His fingers brushed aside Little Barbara's hair, and pinched the air behind her ear. "I think I got somethin' here…holdup…"

Now that she was older, Barbara knew to watch for the jerk of his arm, the lump in his sleeve. The way that he palmed the lump, and brought it out with a gasp of surprise—all fake, all slight of hand. But she still smiled a little in spite of herself.

Calvin Rose held the roll of bills between his fingers and let out a dramatic gasp. "I didn't know you could do that!"

Mini-Barbara giggled, and rolled her eyes up to the dark ceiling. "Cal! I'm not a little kid anymore!"

He gasped again. "What? But you're so short!" He waved his palm over the top of her head. "Hmm. You  _sure?"_

"Yes!"

Calvin lowered his hand and shrugged. He leaned back against the couch and took out his jangling cuffs. "Well, then. Guess I'm gonna hafta start showin' you my tricks, B-girl.  _Sleight of hand!_ The great art of  _escapin'!"_

He held up his wrists with a flourish and a grin, now clamped inside the cuffs.

Little Barbara's smile widened, and she rifled in her pocket. As soon as she pulled something out—hard to see from their hiding place, but Barbara remembered that it was a gum wrapper—she passed it into his grasping hands and edged closer to watch.

"'Kay, so the trick is to fold it…like…this…" Calvin squinted, concentrating. He shifted to give his little sister a better view, and she arched her neck, mouth slightly open. She didn't want to miss a thing, and Calvin went slow enough that she wouldn't. Barbara realized that he was deliberately making his movements gradual; the Calvin Rose she knew would've slipped those cuffs in a little under five seconds.

Dick pulled away from the peephole and stared at her. A line appeared between his eyes as he waved his hands.

" _This,"_ he signed.  _"Was your 'other' family. Wasn't it?"_

She followed his lead.  _"I know what you're thinking."_

" _That right?"_ He smiled wanly.

" _Two words, Dick. Older. Brother. Figure."_

" _That's three."_

" _Shut up."_

He nudged her shoulder, and they sat in silence. The only sounds were the jingling of the handcuffs, a few clicking sounds, and a small gasp of surprise. Dick glanced at Mini-Barbara, then over at her with a small smile.

" _You were cute with short hair."_

" _I looked like Little Orphan Annie!"_

He smirked.  _"Only a little."_

Then, he sobered a bit. His eyes glanced up and around the room, landing on a stacked pile of bagged flour.  _"What is this place, anyway? Looks like the back of a restaurant."_

" _Fanucci's Little Italy,"_ she replied.  _"Pizza, Pasta, Salad. But mostly Pizza."_

" _Sounds delicious! Why haven't we ever swung by? If you know the owner, I'll bet we could get a discount."_

His smile was sweet, but it was a struggle to reciprocate. Barbara swallowed down a sudden lump in her throat.

" _It's not here anymore."_

" _How come? Gotham needs more Italian places, if you ask me."_

" _Dick."_ She bit her lip again. It took too much effort, but she raised her hands and slowly signed,  _"In about a week or so, there's going to be a drive-by. Local gang who didn't get their 'protection money'. Mr. Fanucci…"_

She swallowed again. Hard.

She still remembered walking by the restaurant, hoping to find the old Italian man to ask for another handout. Her stomach was growling, and she was craving a steaming basket of garlic bread. But before she had the chance to cross the street, a car screeched by. A few gun barrels poked out, and the plate-glass window had exploded into glitter. Fanucci had been inside, setting the tables with fresh napkins and roman cheese shakers like he always did before opening. He hadn't made it out.

Dick's eyes widened.  _"Babs…I'm sorry."_

" _It was quick,"_ she signed.  _"And a long time ago. It's okay."_

" _Believe me."_ His expression was mournful.  _"I know. It's okay if it's…not okay."_

She nodded, then looked down at Skeets. He was sitting on the dusty concrete floor just a few inches away from her hand. His light was a yellow color, and there were a few matching words scrolling across his little black screen— _Charging…Please Stand By…Charging…Please Stand By…_

Barbara made a face.  _"Great."_

" _What?"_

" _Robot."_

His eyes landed on the message.  _"Crap."_

That wasn't good. They  _had_ to get out of here before—

A slam made everyone in the room jump. The door was thrown open, and Dick and Barbara saw a figure creep carefully inside. It was tall, muscular, and dressed head-to-toe in an earthy uniform with brass embellishments—most notably the owl medallion on its shoulder. Amber goggles swept the room, then finally landed on the two figures quivering on the couch.

The owl-man stalked forward, its movements fluid and animalistic. Like something out of a nightmare.

"Calvin Rose," it hissed.

Calvin bolted to his feet. "Barbara. Run."

Little Barbara cried out. "Cal!"

" _Go!"_

The Talon took another step. Its head jerked slightly to the side, like a bird of prey fixating on its target. "The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die."

Calvin grabbed her shoulders and shoved her hard. She staggered across the room and crashed through a pile of boxes nearby.

"Barbara,  _RUN!"_

She groaned, and picked herself up off the boxes. She'd landed a few feet away from Barbara and Dick, but didn't pay them any attention. Barbara doubted that her past-self even noticed them at all. Instead, she clambered behind her own pile of boxes, fixated completely on the terrifying figure taking a step towards her position.

"That is your sister?" the creature demanded. "The Court demands that the condemned have their bloodline wiped from the face of the Earth."

Calvin seized the Talon's arm. "No!"

"I must complete my objective."

His face was red as he shouted up at the Talon. He threw an arm out and punched it in the chest. "She's just some kid I found in a gutter! Leave her outta this! She's gone!"

The Talon's clawed gloves squeezed his wrist, and brought it down. "The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die."

"Yeah?" Calvin glowered. "Well, I ain't done kickin' just yet."

With a jerk of his arm, he broke the Talon's hold, and twisted out of his grasp. He spun away from the owl-man's sweeping claws, and dashed away. He slid across the floor, legs tucked, arms out. His fingers closed around a piece of plywood from a broken wood pallet, and he swung it up at the monster's head.

It was all so fast, so precise, that it shocked Barbara to her core.

Calvin had had some form of training—and she'd never even realized.

But the Talon wasn't fazed. The wood snapped and splintered over its head, and it didn't even flinch. Calvin's eyes widened, and he scooted back. The creature stepped forward, claws out and at the ready, but it had made the mistake of leaving its lower half wide open.

Calvin's legs kicked out, and caught the monster's shin. It didn't react, but it did crash to the ground. Which gave Cal the opportunity to get to his feet and make a mad dash for the door.

He almost made it.

His fingertips brushed the knob.

But he hit the floor as the Talon's hand snatched his ankle and pulled. It dragged him across the concrete, and seized his neck with its free hand. Calvin was hoisted into the air by his throat, straining for breath as his feet kicked at the empty space. The Talon flicked its wrist, and a sleek bronze-colored blade snicked out of its gauntlet.

The monster pressed its tip up underneath Cal's chin. "You are admittedly skilled. Where did you learn your technique?"

Calvin grunted, and kicked out at the Talon. But his foot wouldn't reach. He settled for a scowl as he grunted out,

"Eh-Ever hear…a' the Haly's Circus…pal?"

Dick sat back on his haunches, eyes wide and reeling. Barbara placed a gloved hand over her mouth.

A few feet away, Little Barbara was curled into a ball, eyes squinted shut and ears covered by her hands. Tears traced down both cheeks as she clenched her jaw. So that everything Barbara saw now, she saw and heard for the first time.

The Talon, though, cocked its head in confusion. "I have indeed. Were you their clown? Their juggler? I suppose it no longer matters." The blade pressed further, and Cal let out a whimper. "But before you meet the oblivion of death, Rose, the Court demands that you tell me one thing. Where is Dina Lance?"

Calvin choked. His eyes widened a fraction of an inch, but he hurried to school his features into something more neutral. "No…idea who…you're talkin' about."

"I don't believe you, gutter trash. What about Barbara Kean?"

"The…mob lady?"

"No," the Talon snapped. "The little girl. Her n—"

The monster cut off sharply, and its head swiveled in the direction that Mini-Barbara had gone. Cal's legs kicked harder.

"Never…heard those names…before, owl-guy!…So go and…#&$# yourself!"

Talon's head jerked back toward its victim, and its fist tightened. Calvin let out a strangled gasp, and his kicking slowed. "No matter. Once I finish with you, the girl will follow. And finding the meta should prove easy."

"The #$%%'s a…meta?"

"I wouldn't concern yourself."

Cal's voice was getting weaker and weaker, until he could only rasp. "You leave…that girl…alone…"

"Farewell, Calvin Rose," Talon said. Its monotone voice darkened. "Perhaps the Court will grant you salvation beyond the grave. A chance to serve your true masters. But until then—"

The monster thrust his knife up.

Barbara spun away fast, both hands pressed hard over her mouth as she squeezed her eyes shut. Dick's hand was on her back. A pair of tears leaked out from under her eyelids as she fought a sob.

After a few seconds, the gurgling stopped, and there was a heavy thump.

"Now." The Talon's footsteps padded across the concrete, and Barbara cracked open her eyes. She and Dick caught a glimpse of the edge of its shadow a few feet away, but it suddenly stopped.

The doorknob was clicking. It jiggled, then turned, and the door swung open.

A fourteen-year-old girl stepped through the doorway. One hand rubbed at her forehead as she winced. On one side of her mouth, her lipstick was smeared a bit. Her clothes were rumpled and dirty, and she shucked off her jean jacket the second she set foot inside.

"Well, guys, I've gotta wad of cash big enough to buy a corvette, so I'd better start hearing some 'Hi Dina's!' or else I—" Dina looked up a little, and froze. The keys she held in her hand clattered to the floor.

Her breath hitched, and her heavily-painted eyes shot open wide.

In the space of a second, she was at Calvin's side, kneeling in the growing pool of his black-red blood with both hands floating above his body.

"N-no," she whispered, breathlessly.

Her fingers raked through her messy hair, and she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. That was when she noticed the tall owl-man standing a few feet away, and she gasped.

"Dina Lance," the Talon said, without a trace of emotion, "The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die."

Dina gaped up at the creature. "The Court—?"

The Talon raised its wrist, and flicked it sharply. The bloody blade streaked towards her, but she reacted quickly.

Dina threw herself to the side and the knife sailed over her shoulder. She rolled to her feet and glowered darkly. Barbara recognized the look on her face, and clapped both hands over her ears. Dick followed suit. Dina planted one foot, then another, took a deep breath, and opened her mouth.

A piercing cry ripped out of her throat. The entire building shook with the force of it. Equipment rattled, boxes collapsed, and the lightbulb shattered. The Talon flew back into the wall, and collapsed into an unconscious heap. Something black and dark leaked out of its ears, soaking through its cowl.

Dina's expression turned from anger to anguish, and her Canary Cry turned into a long sob. She sank to her knees and raked her fingernails down her face as she cried.

Mini-Barbara crawled out of her hiding place, and raced towards her sister with outspread arms. "Dina!"

Dina gasped, eyes flying open. "Babs!" She caught the little redhead, and wrapped her in a tight hug. Her hand was on the back of the girl's head, keeping it turned away from the body on the ground.

"W-what's going on? Wh-Why did that man come in here? What'd he do to Cal?" the girl whimpered, and pressed her face into Dina's shirt.

She started to stroke Little Barbara's hair, then stopped abruptly. Her eyes were bulging and haunted as something like realization seemed to strike her.

"Babs," she said quickly. "I need you to go."

The girl sniffled, and looked up tearily at her sister. "W-what?"

"I have to leave Gotham." Dina's voice was quiet. "And I can't take you with me."

"Dina—"

"You can stay here. Mr. Fanucci'll take care of you." Her eyes trailed over to the unconscious Talon. "But right now, you need to find somewhere to hide."

"No! Don't leave! I can come with you! I'll—"

Dina's hands were on Little Barbara's shoulders, and she looked her right in the eye. "You  _can't._ I have to go now, Babs. Go to the medical place across the street. Knock twice on the back door and ask for Leslie. Do you understand?"

"No!"

"Yes! Go!" Dina jerked Little Barbara to her feet, and pulled her to the door. "I love you so much, Babs, but it has to be this way. I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

The girl stood stubbornly by the door, but she softened a little. With a sniff, she nodded.

"I'm sorry, Dina," she squeaked.

Dina's shoulders slackened, and a tear leaked out of her eye. "Oh, no, sweetie! You don't have to be sorry!  _I'm_ sorry!"

She wrapped Little Barbara up in one last hug.

But then, the Talon stirred, and Dina stiffened.

"Babs, run. Fast as you can." She threw open the door, and shoved Little Barbara outside.

"Dina—!"

The door slammed shut, knob twisting as it locked, and Dina whirled on the now-standing Talon. She clenched her fists and bared her teeth as it let out a shaky, haunting laugh. The sound made Barbara's skin prickle; it wasn't a laugh so much as a broken recording of one. It cracked its neck, and extended another knife from its gauntlet with a jerk of its wrist.

"How touching," it hissed. "But I'll find her. Once I've reunited you with the gutter rat."

Dina scowled, and planted her feet. "Hard to do if you're dead, $*#& #%#&."

She opened her mouth, but Dick and Barbara never heard the scream.

Another golden flash sent them hurtling away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

An hour and a half.

That was the grand total of time it took to convince Bruce Wayne that the four strangers in his Cave were actually from the future. Alfred had long ago fled upstairs to 'fetch an aspirin and lie down'. Dick and Babs were still watching them both carefully, glancing between the future Bats and their mentor like they were watching a tennis game. It was long. It was tedious. But with the combined powers of security questions, non-specific hints about the future, and a few brief mentions of embarrassing senior Batfam moments (which, judging by the red faces and stuttering, were pretty effective), they soon won him over. After that, he just stared them down with narrowed eyes, grunting occasionally.

Eventually, Dick and Babs had started pleading with their mentor to let the visitors come out on patrol with them. They could use a few more extra hands, and no one would be able to tell they were from the future. Maybe the baddies would just assume the Bats had started outsourcing?

"Worst case scenario," Babs said, fingers curled underneath her chin. (Her puppy-dog eyes were definitely on-point.) "We just make the whole 'Bat' thing more mysterious! I mean, if they're expecting three of us, and suddenly there's  _seven_ of us out tonight…"

"…that'll throw every mugger and Rogue in this city off their game!" Dick raised an eyebrow. "I mean, c'mon, B. We'd be stupid not to take advantage!"

"Not," Babs added, with a pointed glance at the future Bats, "That we'd be taking advantage of you guys."

Steph hummed. "I'm down for some advantage taking if it means I get to kick some past-#$$ tonight!"

Tim's hands had stayed over his face for the entire argument. Now, he let out a sound that was half-moan, half-sigh. Jason nudged him with an elbow, grinning.

"Our cover's been blown, Timbo. Get over it and have some fun, will ya?"

Tim looked up. His eyes were wide and twitching slightly. "I don't think you understand! Do you know what kind of consequences we're going to be dealing with if we ever get back home?"

At the very least, Dick and Babs were going to have a complete memory of everything that was going down at this very moment. But from what Tim knew from reading Bruce's old reports on Barry Allen and his timeline escapades…the results could be catastrophic. Just telling their brother and sister who they were could set off an entirely different course of events. Maybe one that would result in Jason staying dead... A timeline where Stephanie followed her father's footsteps and became a supervillain… One in which Tim never put on a costume at all, and went off to college or something instead... And Damian would probably never have been born. Dick and Babs themselves might actually give up 'the life', or even die tragically. And all because they couldn't keep their mouths shut and stay hidden!

The gravity of it all gave Tim a killer headache.

Damian scowled, arms crossed. "For once, I agree with Drake. The very fact that they know who we are is going to cause confusion in the future. They will anticipate their first encounters with us, and—"

Steph clapped her hands over her ears. "Stop. Just stop. No time-travel-paradox discussions, okay, guys? Please? Let's just go out on patrol with these guys, and have  _fun_ with this whole mess! We can even look for Skeets while we're out there!"

Bruce looked up from his two young partners and raised an eyebrow. "If you're looking for Booster Gold's robot, then I have some bad news for you."

He pointed to the screen, and all of his kids' heads swiveled to stare at the flow of data. The info scrolled across the screen underneath Robin's map of Gotham. There were no little blinking dots, no strange energy signatures…

Skeets was gone. And not only was he gone, but he wasn't even in the same time anymore.

They were trapped.

For some reason, that actually made Tim feel better. Maybe if they stayed here, things would stay more-or-less the same…? Then again…

His headache intensified.

Steph's fingers raked through her hair. "W-wait. You mean we're…"

Damian exploded. "This is unacceptable! We  _cannot_ be trapped in the past with these pre-pubescent versions of our paren—" He paused for a second, face reddening. Then, he scowled and continued ranting. "Grayson and Delphi! What about them? They're going to notice that we've gone missing, and they'll have no means of knowing where we've gone or how to find us! Not to mention the obvious fact that Titus is home  _by himself,_ and neither Pennyworth nor Grayson is competent enough to care for him effectively! What about—?"

At that point, Damian started spouting off angry phrases in Arabic, so his older siblings turned to each other.

"Kid has a point," Jason said, shrugging. "But we can't worry about that now. We'll burn that bridge when we get to it."

"Um, hon," Steph said softly. "Don't you mean 'cross'? We'll 'cross' that bridge when we get to it? No burning. Burning equals bad."

"What are you talking about? It's  _burn._ You know, like 'burn that bridge when we get there'."

"That…is a 90's country song."

"No, it's—"

Tim glanced over at the original trio, but they were staring slack-jawed at the angry devil child. Damian's face was red as he threw fist after fist into one of the Cave's stalagmites, all the while growling in his native tongue. Bruce nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

"I have questions," he muttered.

"More questions?" Barbara mumbled. Her eyes were wide.

"Mmm."

She nodded. "Same here."

Dick raised a hand and looked at Tim. "Uh. Red Robin?"

Tim swallowed the growing lump of panic in his throat and crossed his arms. His voice was shaky, but he managed to say, "Shoot."

The original Robin nodded. "Uh. Yeah. How old  _is_ this kid?"

Steph and Jason both stopped arguing about bridges for a moment and looked up. All three of them shrugged and simultaneously said, "He's ten."

Bruce's jaw fell open just a little more.

But Damian stopped punching the rock, and stared at them all. The little monster's face was schooled into a neutral expression, but Tim didn't miss the tic between his eyebrows. Which, honestly, was a little confusing. They didn't actually hurt the demon's feelings, did they? All they'd said was—

"I'm twelve years old," Damian said. "Actually."

His face pinched up slightly, but he turned, and gave the rock another half-hearted hit.

Steph, Jason and Tim shared a startled glance. Steph's hand wandered up to her mouth. Jason scowled thoughtfully at the ceiling, and Tim quickly did the calculations in his head, and…

Holy $#^%. How had they  _missed_ that? The kid had been with them almost three years now!

Seconds went by, but it may as well have been hours. The older Batkids just stared at their youngest member in shock, and the original trio were exchanging wary glances. Probably having an entire conversation in a language that was all their own, because Bruce finally cleared his throat, and everyone snapped to attention.

"I think," he said, "That it would be alright if they tagged along."

Dick and Barbara pumped their fists in the air. "Yes!"

" _But._ They'll follow our lead. And their masks must stay on at  _all times."_

Steph shrugged, grinning. "Pfft. We do that anyways, boss-man! Let's go suit up!"

She and Barbara fist-bumped, and Bruce glanced between them. Then, he shook his head and sighed.

"I'll be a few minutes. In the meantime…everyone suit up."

Dick and Barbara leapt towards their costume cases and started shucking off their civilian clothes. Tim noticed they were wearing shorts and undershirts beneath. A good idea. He wondered why they'd abandoned it. (He definitely could've used another layer when Jason and Stephanie had stolen his uniform and clothes the other night. Dick had been trying not to smile while he helped Tim cover up with a towel. Babs chased after the offending siblings. Damian was nowhere to be found.)

He shook his head, and followed the others up the set of metal stairs. Their suits were still hidden behind the display cases, like they themselves should've been. Tim couldn't help but wonder if they were ever getting out of this mess. Were they stuck in time forever?

Were their siblings even looking for them?

No. Stupid question. Of course, they were. Dick would search to the ends of the Earth if his family was missing, and Barbara would fight tooth and nail to get them back. Tim  _knew_ that.

But they could search all the right places, and never come up with anything.

He may as well face the obvious.

They wouldn't come. Because they  _couldn't_ come.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not fine. Sit down."

Dick's hands pressed down on her shoulders, but Barbara shook them off with a huff. Arms crossed tight over her chest, she stalked past him, and looked out over the city scape. Still in Gotham, but she knew right away that they wouldn't find their siblings there. As soon as Skeets had finished charging, he'd automatically blasted them somewhere else in time. Her only clue as to  _when_ exactly was the time of day (which wasn't helpful in the least). The sun was just starting to dip below the tower-filled horizon, washing the entire world in orange and gold. She glanced over and saw Dick's face, half illuminated, half hidden in shadow.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Her fingers curled into fists. "It's fine. It was a long time ago."

He shook his head, and met her eyes carefully. "Watching someone you love die…that's not something you just get over. Believe me."

"I didn't see it. At least, not the first time."

"Still." He stepped forward, arms out, ready to wrap her in an embrace. And she wanted him to. She wanted to let herself be wrapped up and shut everything else out. The pain they'd both had to relive, the growing panic rising in her chest—that they'd never find their siblings, and be doomed to travel from one time to the next for eternity…it was too much.

But there was something that needed to be said first.

"Dick."

He paused, searching her face with knit brows. "Are you sure everything's okay?"

She sighed. "No. I'm not. But I need to know something. Do you remember the gala? The Talon that saved you from Firefly?"

Dick nodded. "How could I forget? Firebug's in the ICU because of—wait." Something like realization flickered in his eyes. Barbara was tempted to remind him that his cowl was still down, but she figured it didn't matter at this point in time. "Babs, we figured he was proof that the Court's real. But we saw one back when we were still just kids. How long have they been operating, right under our noses?"

Barbara reached out and snagged his wrist. "Excellent question, Dick, but not what I'm getting at."

"Then what?"

"The Talon." She bit her lip. "Dick. I found out who he is, underneath the mask."

He started. "That's great! Now we can start piecing together—"

"It's Calvin Rose."

Silence. Dick stared at her, slack jawed and wide-eyed. She could almost see the pieces jumbling around inside his head, coming together slightly, but still not clicking together. His mouth opened, then closed. Then, he wet his lips. "Calvin Rose. The one the Talon just killed. Your…brother, Calvin Rose."

"Yeah."

"But he's…"

"I know."

Dick squinted. "Then how—?"

"Still trying to figure that one out myself, too." Her fingertips pressed to her temple. Her eyes fluttered shut. "It doesn't make sense. They buried Cal in Potter's Field. I watched it happen. And…it's not like with Jason or Steph. No Lazarus Pit, no inter-dimensional rips or rifts…It just shouldn't be possible. But it was  _his_ voice.  _His_ handwriting on the note he gave me—"

"He gave you a note?"

"—he called me 'B-girl'. And at the asylum, when I called him 'Cal', he—"

"Hold up. You saw him at  _Arkham?"_ Dick's eyes widened. "Is there anything else I need to know?"

"That's everything. I think." Barbara opened her eyes. "Cal had a connection to Haly's. Did you…know him?"

Her partner seemed to be on the verge of exploding. His fingers wove through his hair as he let out a shaky sigh. "Calvin Rose… I'm guessing the 'Youngest Escape Artist in America'? Yeah. You could say that."

"Tell me."

So he did. He told her about the older kid who used to hang around with his older cousin Johnny. How Haly took a special interest in him, helped train him, and let him perform with the group whenever the circus was in Gotham. Before the Flying Graysons' tragedy, Haly's Circus used to roll into town several times a year. In exchange for his time, Haly paid the kid handsomely.

The kid—Calvin Rose, apparently—never stayed with the circus. After the shows, he'd disappear. Where to, no one really knew. They liked to speculate—maybe the kid was a runaway, maybe he was running from the police, or maybe he sneaked away from his cozy house and family just long enough to get a taste of the circus life.

But then the Graysons were murdered. Dick's parents, aunt, uncle, and cousins. He went to live with a wealthy benefactor who'd seen the whole thing. And Jack Haly pulled the circus out of Gotham.

As for the daring kid-escapist? Until now, Dick had never seen him again.

Barbara listened carefully. Every now and then, she nodded, or hummed sympathetically. In her mind, the pieces started to line up a bit. Even if they didn't fit together just yet, she had something to go on.

She cleared her throat and said, "There's a connection."

Dick nodded. He must have reached the same conclusion. "Talons coming out of the blue right when the circus rolls back into town. I don't think Jack's behind it…"

"Neither do I. But we can't ignore the coincidence."

"I agree." He turned his head a bit, staring out at the disappearing sunset. The light had dimmed, and now the city was bathed in the blue light of dusk, just before night really set in. His throat bobbed a little as he swallowed. Then, he spoke. "You need to meet up with Rose. Get what you can from him. And I…"

Barbara's lips pursed. "You need to pay your old circus buddies a visit."

"If we ever get back home again, that is." His mouth twisted a little at that.

" _You can go 'home' at any time you wish,"_ Skeets called out. The little robot was hovering a few feet away. He seemed to like keeping his distance from the Bats, and Barbara couldn't bring herself to complain.  _"I just wish that you idiots would hurry up and abandon this fool's errand already."_

Barbara grit her teeth. "Well, if you were even a  _tiny_ bit more helpful, we could get this whole thing over with."

" _I am being helpful. You're just being incompetent."_

She turned to Dick with a frown. "First thing I do when this is all over? Melt down that little hunk of wires and sass. Make us a new toaster."

" _I heard that!"_

A line appeared between Dick's eyebrows. "D'you think the kids are okay? Are we even close?"

"We're close. I can feel it."

" _Well thank goodness for that!"_

"Shut up!" They both snapped.

Barbara scrutinized the little bot carefully. An idea struck her, and she marched forward. Skeets recoiled a little, light flashing, as he let out a few demands and pleas. All of which she ignored as she seized the little robot and flipped it over.

"Screwdriver?" she asked, holding out a hand. Dick started, and rifled in his belt. When he found the tool, he passed it over with a raised eyebrow.

"What is it?"

"I'm an  _idiot_ ," she muttered. "I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner!"

" _I can."_

She smacked the robot with the heel of her hand. "Watch it, tin can. Your days are numbered." Barbara ripped off the bottom panel, and her eyes swept over the wires and circuits inside. "His hard drive should have a record of his past jumps. If we can find a way to tap in, sift through his data, then—"

Dick beamed. "We can pinpoint exactly when the others wound up!"

Together, they knelt on the roof, and started tampering. Barbara pulled a wire tap from her belt and clipped it to each wire in Skeets's body, one right after the other. A few controlled his visual feed, others his auditory sensors. One of them even regulated the robot's speech patterns. Barbara wanted to cut it, but Dick insisted that, annoying as the robot was, they needed him fully operational. For now.

Finally, the monitor connected to the wire tap lit up with a scrolling list of dates and times. Both Bats let out a whoop of victory, and pressed their heads together as they read the data.

"There's our last jump…one before that…the Barbara Kean jump…Crime Alley…" Dick's eyes roved over the scrolling numbers. Then, he jumped, and placed his finger on one set of digits. "There."

Barbara squinted. As soon as she read the numbers, she clapped her palm over her face and let out a gasp.

"Oh,  _no..."_

Dick laughed. "Don't worry. They probably landed in a park or something. Nowhere near the Cave."

She looked at her partner, panicked. "But what if we run into  _them?"_

"You mean  _us_ , right?" He chuckled. "Seriously? What are the odds of that?"

 


	13. Blast From the Past Part 3

 

To be honest, Jason figured he'd be spending the night sitting on a roof in Gotham dressed in leather and body armor. Having Steph crouched on his right wasn't really a surprise either. They'd been planning a sweep of the city after the whole Watchtower shebang anyway.

No.  _That_ was all normal. But having a thirteen-year-old version of his big sister Barbara standing on his left with a pair of clunky night vision goggles…

Yeah. That's where things started to shift into extreme funky-town.

It was fun at first. Kinda cool to see Dick and Babs as teenagers. Jason had only ever known them as love-struck young adults. Perfectly in sync. Always finishing each other's sentences and all that romantic crap. He couldn't even imagine one without the other. But…first thing he and the others had seen these two do out of uniform was fight like they wanted to kill each other. Violently. And all of those 'well, we weren't  _always_ so happy together…' comments they'd made over the years had kinda started to make sense.

That didn't mean he had to like it.

He watched Babs out of the corner of his eyes, now. She was busy checking the warehouse below for heat signatures, so she didn't notice.

For years, she'd been taller than him. When he was Robin, Dick and Babs used to rib him a little about his height. Babs'd even put her elbow on his head and lean against him like he was some sort of arm rest. All in good fun, but he couldn't deny the satisfaction of coming back to life and towering over both of them. (Who's the short one now, huh Golden Boy?)

But younger Babs was probably about five-foot-one. Tops. No curves (he tried not to notice), all wide-eyes and freckles. And…there was something else about her. She almost seemed… _innocent_. It hit him a little, just then, that he was seeing his big sister without all the baggage. There was still something a little bit sad, a little guarded, about the way she hunched her shoulders when she pressed the goggles to her face, but…that was it.

This was Barbara before Jason had gotten himself beaten to a pulp and blown up. Before Steph was tortured and killed. Before the Joker had broken into the Wayne Manor library and shot her in the spine and—other things. Before all the worst Big Bads that the city had to offer. Before every dark, evil monster that seemed to keep crawling out of the depths of Gotham.

Before they'd all watched the Joker shoot Bruce.

He had to pretend not to notice, sometimes. The way that Dick bit his lip to hold back tears at the briefest mention of their mentor. The way that Barb carried herself—hurting on the inside, but strong on the surface. Both of his older siblings pasted on smiles every #^%$ day so that the others wouldn't notice just how screwed to #$%% everything really was.

If he was being totally honest, Jason did it too.

Steph nudged his shoulder a little. "Hey. You good?"

"Uh. Yeah." He blinked a little. "You?"

She was staring at him. He could tell. Could practically feel her eyes boring into the side of his head. Then, he heard her hum.

"Yee-ah…I don't buy it." Her arms crossed over her chest. "Spill, tough guy."

That's what he liked about Steph. She didn't let him get away with anything.

But that didn't mean he'd ever make it easy on her. That's what she liked about  _him._

So, he just shrugged. "Nothin' to spill, blondie. Just thinking."

"Well, could you two think a little quieter?" Barbara lowered the goggles and raised an eyebrow. Then let out a heavy sigh. "I'm gonna go find a better vantage point, 'kay? So I  _don't_ scare off all the baddies."

Before Jason could even open his mouth, her line shot out into a nearby roof, and whined a little as it pulled her away. They both watched their sister's cape flap in the breeze as she swung herself into the shadows.

Steph grimaced. "Yeesh. Guess 'rooftop banter' hasn't been invented yet?"

"Have you seen those two? Bruce probably  _banned_ it."

Steph didn't answer. His girlfriend fixed him with another piercing stare. Her eyes narrowed a little, and Jason squirmed. Then, after a few moments, she sat back on her haunches and pursed her lips. "Oh."

He grit his teeth, nervous. "Oh? Oh, what?"

She shook her head slightly, and pressed two fingers to the side of her cowl. "Batgirl? This is Batgirl speaking…yeah, yeah I know it's confusing, but don'tcha just love it?...I knew I liked you, sweetie! So  _any_ ways, Red Hood and I are gonna take a quick detour…no, no problems. I just saw some suspicious activity going down…yep…okay, roger that. And don't tell the Big Boss-man, alright? Thanks!"

She frowned a little, and met his eyes again. Her fingers snaked into his. "Follow me, Jaybird. There's something you oughta see."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Red Robin spun to the side, narrowly missing the bullet. The shrapnel from the brick wall behind him showered against the back of his armored neck, harmless. He brushed the dust off his shoulders, and lunged forwards.

One hit. Uppercut. Jab to the stomach. Right hook. Jump. Dodge. Kick. Spin. Leap. Haymaker.

The thugs went down around him like puppets whose strings had been cut. Robin and Robin were both laughing with glee as they hopped from baddie to baddie, using fists and feet to knock heads and kick #$$. Damian's sword flashed underneath the streetlights. Tim was tempted to yell for him to put that thing away before he killed somebody, but the kid seemed to be keeping himself in check.

Besides, the boss-man seemed to have things under control.

Bruce stood back, watching his boys work. Tim managed to pause just long enough to see the look of grudging respect on his mentor's much-younger face. Then, he caught Red Robin's eye. He crossed his arms over his wide chest, covering the emblem as he narrowed his stare.

Tim got the hint immediately. He dropped. A fist swung over his head, and he leapt backwards in a flip that Dick had taught him after patrol a few months back. His legs wrapped around the thug's thick neck, and he flung his whole body to the side, twisting. The heavyset man grunted as he went down in a heap, and Tim finished the job with a quick expert strike to the jaw.

Dick looked up from his thug, and his jaw dropped. "Dude! That was awesome!"

Damian huffed. "Tt. Please. That was child's play."

The three Robins dragged the thugs into the center of the room, tying and cuffing their wrists while Batman moved to get to work on their truck. The museum artifacts in the back were fragile and ancient. But the bomb rigged to explode in case of vigilantes or cops? Not so much.

As they worked, Dick kept chattering.

"So, that Jacob guy. What's the deal with the white hair streak?"

"Jason," Tim corrected. He clinched the cuffs on one of the thugs, who let out a small unconscious grunt. "And we have no idea. Probably from the Lazarus Pit, but it could also be head trauma from his accident or—"

"What the heck's a 'Lazarus Pit'?"

Damian's expression darkened. He tossed his baddie aside and straightened. "Believe me," he said. "You do not want to know."

"Ooh-kay." Robin raised an eyebrow. "Then tell me this. What're your guys's suits made of? Kevlar?"

"Some Kevlar. A few cybernetic elements and some synthetic materials that are stronger." Tim shrugged. "Wait a few years. You'll see."

"Sweet." A beat, then, "Why the bo?"

Tim glanced down at the staff he'd dropped, and bent to scoop it up off the ground. He gave it an experimental twirl, and it made a metallic swish as it spun. Then, he banged one end on the concrete, and it collapsed into a compact cylinder.

"Good balance," he said. "Efficient. But I think you should stick with your sticks."

"My what?"

"Nothing."

Original Robin shrugged. "Okay. Well, then. Robin? Why the katana?"

The demon child shrugged and sheathed his sword. "Why not?"

"Guess…I can't argue with that?"

Damian glanced up at Bruce, who was still in the back of the truck defusing the bomb. A line appeared between his brows, and he glanced sideways at Dick. Then, he cleared his throat and managed to say, "You and Del—er, Barbara. Why do you hate one another so much?"

Tim levelled a stare at the demonling. All of them had been a little put off by seeing their older siblings' rivalry. Heck, Tim was still trying to convince himself that the bared teeth and insults had been real. Because Dick and Barbara were a lot of things, but they were  _never_ at odds with each other.

Apparently, the kid seemed to be a little more 'put off' than the rest of them.

Dick started, then glowered. He dropped his thug, and the man let out a low 'oof!' of pain. He rubbed his gloved palms together, dusting them off, then said, darkly, "Why? You've seen her, right? The boss's perfect little angel?" Then, he added under his breath, "To his face, at any rate."

Damian made a small sound at the back of his throat.

"Such a perfectionist. Such a suck-up." Dick planted a soft kick into a thug's shoulder. The unconscious man gave no response. Robin's shoulders drooped a little. "We had a good thing going, me and Bats. 'Dynamic Duo' and all that. Just us guys. Then one night, he comes home with  _her._ Suddenly it's like  _she's_ the only partner he needs, and I'm just back-up. The old model. And she's…" He made a fist, and the Kevlar of his glove crackled a little. "Somehow better than I am? Bats never even  _notices_ me anymore, and it's all her fault. She's—"

"A Replacement." Tim's voice was flat.

Dick threw his arms out to the sides. "Exactly!"

"Believe me, I know the feeling."

Damian started, and glanced up at Tim with a furrowed brow. He almost looked like a kicked puppy. But that was impossible. The kid didn't feel things the way other kids did; he was a trained assassin. A forty-year-old trapped in a twelve-year-old's body. Tim must have been right, because just as quickly, the demon turned away with his usual pompous frown.

"Regardless," the kid said, "The two of you should not argue. It isn't…natural."

"Hn. Tell that to the street brat. She started it."

"Robin."

Batman's low voice made all of them freeze and look up. Their mentor stalked towards them, cape furling out behind him as he stepped down from the truck. His gaze was dark and frightening, but that wasn't unusual for late-night patrols.

Tim almost jumped out of his own skin when Bruce's hand landed on his shoulder.

"Good work," he rumbled. "I have to say that I'm quite impressed."

"Um. Thanks," Tim squeaked.

"Your forms were excellent. Your movements showed no hesitation." The corner of Bruce's mouth quirked up. "Perhaps…we could find a place for you in Gotham if you and your partners do have to stay."

Tim's shoulders stiffened, and he watched Damian seize up a little.

It was a possibility that had been subtly tossed around all night. Ever since their search for Skeets's energy signature came up empty. Without the time travelling robot, there was no way for them to get back to their own time. Worse yet, the Batman and Batwoman of their time would have no idea where or when—or even how—to find them.

Bruce and Alfred would give them a place to stay, no question. Life would be business as usual. They'd get to hone their skills, fight the good fight. Grow up. Just…a little over a decade earlier than they'd planned.

And even if Tim wanted his adoptive father back…he wasn't sure he wanted to give up the rest of his life in exchange. What about Tam? Would she be missing him right now? Or did they never meet, all because of this whole misadventure? And Dick and Babs? How would their lives change if they suddenly had four older siblings instead of…

Alright. He had to stop thinking like that, or he was going to get another migraine.

"Thanks, Batman," he managed. "We learned from the best."

The other side of Bruce's mouth lifted. Now his smile was genuine.

"Alright. In that case, we—" His head jerked to the side a bit. Bruce carefully reached up to the side of his cowl and said, gruffly, "Yes. What is it, Jim?"

The Robins waited carefully while their leader nodded and hummed. When the Commissioner finished speaking, he lowered his hand and sighed. He glanced over each of them and squared his shoulders.

"Joker's attacking the Gotham Zoo," he said. "Let's head out."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Uh, Steph?"

Jason squinted at the house across the street. He wasn't sure why his girlfriend had brought him all the way out here, to the suburbs. They were stretched out on top of a shingled roof, peering over the ridge. Jason never liked shingles; they were too slippery. Even now, he was holding onto the roof's ridge with white knuckles and bared teeth.

The neighborhood was quiet—way quieter than the city ever got. Each yard was trimmed and pristine, and the whole place made him want to scream. Lawn ornaments and picket fences—all a front for whatever was going on inside those houses. Could be anything. At least in the Narrows, you could tell what kind of place you were in by having a good look around.

"Yes, boyfriend?"

He glanced over at her. Steph's gaze was fixed firmly on the house in front of them, and there was a scary frown on her face. "Why are we—"

"Shush." She pushed his jaw with one finger, turning his face back to their target.

It was a small house. White siding, gray trim. Little pink plastic flamingo by the front porch. The only thing interesting about it was the large glass window by the front door. The residents had left their blinds open, and lamplight filtered out into the street, painting the road out front a soft yellow.

Steph wriggled a little and brought out her gauntlet. As she pointed her fist at the house, there was a soft puff of air. A small silver dot appeared in the top right corner of the window, and she reached over and pressed something to the side of his hood.

"Now, listen."

Audio feed crackled inside the helmet, and he gaped at her—even though he knew she couldn't see it.

"D-Daddy?"

A crackly little girl's voice filtered through, and he returned his gaze to the window. With a tap on the other side of his hood, his visual feed zoomed in on the two people sitting on the old couch inside. A man and a little girl.

"You going to stop crying, or do I have to make you?"

"I'm t-t-try-trying…"

"Well try harder. Get it right this time."

Jason almost jumped up when he saw the flash of a gun. It was jammed against the soft blonde curls of the little girl's temple. Her shaking fingers were wrapped around the grip.

"Now. I'll say it again. This time slower, so you can understand, okay pumpkin?" The man's teeth were bared in a snarl. They were slightly yellow, and Jason wasn't in the room with them, but he was almost a hundred percent sure that the man's breath smelled like booze. His own happy childhood memories threatened to surface, but he focused on the two civilians instead. "One bullet in the chamber. Six slots. What's the probability that it's in the one pointed at your head?"

Jason couldn't see the girl's face, only the back of her head. But he was pretty sure she was crying. The thought made him clench his fists.

"Wuh-one out of suh-s-six."

The man leaned in closer and snapped, "Percentage!"

"Sixt-teen point s-six, s-s-six, s-six! D-Daddy, p-please!"

"Can't you talk normal?" He raised his hand and the girl flinched. Hard. The man smirked, and lowered it, then growled. "Pull the trigger."

"W-what?" The girl shook. "D-d-daddy, n-no!"

"#^$, you're annoying," he groaned. He reached out and put his finger on hers.

He squeezed.

Jason could hear the hollow click. The shaky sound of the girl's relieved gasp.

"That percentage just went up by sixteen percent. Now what is it?"

"I don't—"

The man gave his daughter a tight-lipped smile. "Let me give you a clue. Four out of five are clear. What's one fifth? Percentage?"

"T-twenty…"

"Good. Write that down."

Jason turned to Steph. Her face was stony and intense as she stared down at the scene below. He didn't like seeing her like that. Cold and indifferent. Jason was used to the bubbly Stephanie Brown—heck, he'd almost never even seen her without a cute little grin on her face.

"What's he doing?"

She glanced over briefly. Shrugged a shoulder. "Helping me with my math homework."

She tossed it out casually. Nonchalant. Like she was telling him what the weather was like, or what color his helmet was. Jason couldn't help gaping.

"That's  _you_ down there?" he demanded. Now he was definitely ready to jump down and put a bullet or two through the man in the house. See how he liked _those_  chances.

He started to, even. But Steph put a hand on his arm and sighed. "Calm down, there, cowboy. The gun doesn't go off. I mean,  _obviously."_

They slid down the roof a little, laying out on their backs as they looked at each other. With a few simple clicks and turns of the dial on his hood, he slid the helmet off and met her eyes with his own. Now he could feel her soft breath on his face.

"So," he said.

"Yep." Steph shrugged. "You caught a glimpse into a typical night in the Brown household. Well actually, Mom was usually sober enough to keep him away from me, but—yeah. Here's to pretty $#^%%& childhoods, right?" She let out a dry bark of laughter. "#$%%, and that's be _fore_ the teen pregnancy…"

He paused. "Why did you want to show me this?"

He kept his own childhood under wraps. Dick and Babs didn't know about Willis Todd, or about his parenting style. #$%%,  _Bruce_ probably had no idea. And he wasn't about to tell them, either. He could do without their pity. He didn't want it.

But maybe his girlfriend had some idea. And maybe she didn't want pity either.

"I wanted to  _show_ you," Steph said breezily, "Because I could  _totally_ tell that kid in the park was you. Like, c'mon. He even did that nose-wrinkle thing you do when you're confused!"

"Hey, my nose doesn't do anything!" Jason clapped a hand over his chest. "And it's never confused!"

She giggled a little, then sobered. "And I wanted you to know that you're not the only person in the family who had a pretty sucky dad. I mean, I'm over it  _now_. You've seen how well-adjusted I am, right? The stutter's gone, and so is my old man! And I hope you are, too. Um,  _over it_ , that is. So…just so you know that someone understands what you're feeling. Our dads…they aren't us."

He stared at her, mouth open slightly. Until her eyes darted warily up at the sky.

Steph cleared her throat. "Could you…I don't know. Say something? I'm trying to be the supportive girlfriend here, and I don't think it's working. This…is kinda awkward. If it's not working, then—"

Jason rolled over and cupped the back of her cowl in his hand, resting his arm on the shingles by her shoulder. He leaned down and pressed his lips against hers, cutting her off. Steph's eyelids fluttered shut as her hands came up to rest on his shoulders. He could feel her hum happily. Their lips moved together perfectly. Feeling, tasting and breathing. He sucked on her bottom lip while she reached up to run her fingers through his hair.

Jason couldn't form the words. How grateful he was for this girl. How she always seemed to know exactly what he was feeling and exactly what he needed. The others…they didn't understand everything. What it was like to die—(the getting killed part sucked, of course, but also the actual  _death_ part)—and what it was like to come back. To wake up in your own coffin. To dig yourself out of your own grave and wander around aimlessly. Trying to remember who you were. Trying to decide who you were going to be, while you picked up old memories like pieces of broken glass.

In the entire world—out of seventeen billion human beings—the number of people that understood came down to a grand total of two. And they were both on a roof in suburban Gotham, making out under the smoggy night sky.

He wanted to keep going. She seemed to want it, too. But first, he pulled back and shot her a lopsided smile.

"What would I do without you, blondie?"

She wrapped her arms around his neck and smirked. "Probably wallow in a puddle of misery and self-loathing," she chirped. "You have no  _idea_ how lucky you are, Jaybird."

His voice was husky. "Y'know, I think I've got some idea."

She beamed and pulled him in for another round. They hummed and moaned together, sliding down a little on the shingles. Jason's tongue traced her bottom lip. She opened her mouth to let him in. Her fingers dug through his hair. His hand travelled to her waist.

"&^%, I love you," he gasped when they came up for air.

"You better."

He leaned in again, but Steph's cowl beeped. Both their eyes widened.

"Uh…" Jason cleared his throat.

Steph tipped back her head and swore.

"You should probably…"

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, grimacing. Her fingers were already creeping up to the side of her head.

She sat up, and Jason crawled off of her. The person on the other end seemed to be talking fast, because Steph bit her lip and stared off into the distance as she concentrated.

"Yeah…oh.  _Oh._  Um…are you  _sure_  that's a good—okay. We'll be there in a few…If you say so…Yep…see ya."

Her face was pale, and she shot him a wary glance.

He cocked his head, eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Looks like we're hunting clowns tonight, Jay." She stood shakily and shrugged. "Shall we?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Well, Batsy, I'd say I'm impressed with your little brats, but then I'd be  _lion!"_

At the bottom of the lion enclosure, Dick and Babs both let out simultaneous groans. Batgirl skipped backwards to avoid a sweeping paw, and the big cat growled in annoyance.

Even Tim winced. The Joker they knew was bigger into explosions and blood. Even hearing his voice now sent a shiver up the future Bats' spines. But that was about it. Cause, this guy? He was still the Joker, only…

"Punny." Steph's fingers were over her face as she groaned. Tim could see her eyes peeking out between them. "Holy $#^%, he's punny. Make it stop! _"_

"And we thought  _your_ wordplay was terrible," Damian snipped. He readjusted himself on his tree branch, gripping the bark like a lifeline. All four former/current Robins were perched in a tree, hidden by the leaves as they watched the Originals at work. (The irony of their situation was not lost on Tim.)

Batman stood few feet from the edge of the enclosure, half watching his two partners down below. His gaze, though, was fixed firmly on the clown in front of him. Joker was standing at the helm of a pack of slavering, giggling hyenas. There was something off about the animals; their fur had a purplish tinge, and their panting grins seemed a little forced.

Then he noticed the zookeepers and park staff shuffling behind the creatures. Tears streamed from their eyes as they howled uncontrollably. Their smiles were…%#^&…

Joker Gas. Must be.

It was something Tim had only ever heard of. The Joker in his time relied on bombs, guns and knives. But he'd overheard Dick and Babs some nights in the cave during their 'good-old-days' reminiscings. Usually they talked about things like the 'Freudian implications of Penguin's umbrella' (they laughed hard about that one, though he wasn't sure why), the 'rainbow-bat suits' (Tim didn't want to know…) or 'shark repellent', whatever the heck that was. But when their old-timey talk turned serious, they sometimes whispered about Joker Gas. All Tim usually caught were lines like,  _"Thank &#$ he doesn't use it anymore. Could you even imagine…?" _and  _"I've dosed the others with the anti-toxin. Just in case."_ Always accompanied by matching shudders.

Maybe this version of the Joker was just as scary after all.

One of the male lions pounced, and Batgirl rolled out of the way with a cry. A cloud of dust billowed in her wake. Robin jumped up on the enclosure wall and flipped into the air. He came down on the lion's back and grabbed its mane with both hands.

"Hold still, there, Fluffy," he muttered. His fingers searched through his belt, and he brought out what looked like a small dart. "Sleep tight."

Batgirl got to her feet shakily. "Did you seriously just call that thing  _Fluffy?"_

The lion collapsed underneath him and he jumped off. The two of them turned back to the angry lionesses. Batarangs out, and ready to fight. "Do me a favor and shut up, okay?"

Batgirl growled and readied her grappling hook. " _& *$%#."_

"Jerk," he shot back.

Up above, Joker gave a high-pitched chuckle. "Don'tcha just  _love_ watching the cubs get along, Batsss?"

Bruce was expressionless. "What do you want with the zoo, Joker?"

The clown paused, and a hand fluttered up to his chest like he was offended. "Isn't it obvious? Pets, Batsy!  _Pets!"_ He waved his hands back at the hyenas and zoo staff, and shot Batman a conspiratorial smile. "See, Harls told me the other day she wants rugrats. Little clowns and harlequins running around the house!" Joker threw his head back and laughed. "Can you even  _imagine?_ Figured what my girl needs is a few furry friends to chase after. Give it a few days and she'll forget  _all_ about it!"

"This is about your  _relationship problems?"_ Batgirl groaned from the pit as she dodged a set of snapping teeth. "Are you #^$&*%&  _kidding_ me right now? _"_

Batman sighed. "Language."

Tim looked up at Jason. His older brother was crouched on the branch just above him. His helmet obscured his face, but Tim was almost a hundred percent sure that the Red Hood was scowling down at the Joker.

"They need help," he muttered.

Jason didn't even hesitate. "No."

"But—"

" _No."_

Both Batkids burst out of the enclosure. Their grapple lines snapped in the air as they retracted, and Tim watched their capes stream behind them as they flew upwards. Their feet padded on the concrete as they landed next to their mentor and held up their fists.

Batman's chin jerked up slightly, and Batgirl and Robin both surged forward. Joker laughed and spun out of their way. He ducked and twisted to avoid their kicks and blows, and Batman lunged, joining the fight.

Steph glanced up at Jason too, frowning. "Jay, what if—"

"We can't," he said, shoulders tight, "Let that maniac see us. The others can handle it."

Tim bit his lip and scowled down at the fight below. Joker was actually holding up pretty well. He'd pulled a knife from his suit pocket—which seemed a little more his speed—and was slashing it at Bruce's stomach. Batman slid back. His fist darted out, and he caught Joker's wrist, squeezing until the knife clattered to the ground.

Batgirl and Robin were busy keeping the hyenas at bay. The crazed animals had started attacking. Jaws snapping, saliva flying. One bit down hard on Batgirl's ankle, but thanks to her boot's thick material, she shook it off and punched it in the face without skipping a beat. Dick tossed a pellet into the pack, and smoke billowed over the animals. A few collapsed, but they seemed to just keep coming.

Batman hit the ground and rolled away from the Joker. He popped up just in front of Robin, taking the full force of a snarling hyena that would have hit the Boy Wonder like a freight train. The animal's teeth latched down on Bruce's gauntlet. He snarled louder than the beast, and threw it off.

Robin instantly flipped around, back-to-back with his mentor. He kicked up, and the Joker's other knife flew out of his hand.

"Boy Blunder!" the Joker cackled. "Come play with me!"

Robin ducked as the Joker's fist flew at his head, then came back up, headbutting the clown in the nose. His head cracked back and he staggered, groaning. Dick grit his teeth and threw a hook at the Joker's face. It connected with his jaw. Tim heard the crack and winced a little.

He moved to slide off his branch. "I'm going."

Jason snagged the back of his cape. "I don't think so."

"Yeah?" Tim whirled around. "Who put you in charge?"

Steph and Damian were watching with wide eyes, frowning as the two brothers glowered at each other in silence. Jason never loosened his hold on Tim's cape.

"I did," Hood snapped. "Cause I'm older than all of you.  _And_ I'm the only one who knows what it's like to get whacked by that freak! Just shut up, trust me, and  _stay out of it!"_

Tim threw a hand out at the pack of wild zoo staff and hyenas on one side, and the Joker and eldest brother on the other. "Well, what about them?"

"They'll be fine. It's you guys I'm worried about." His grip tightened. "#$%%, we're not even supposed to  _be_ here!"

"Oh, so  _now_ you're worried about the timeline? You—"

The clown hit the ground, moaning, and Robin stood over him. He bent slightly, and grabbed Joker's collar with one fist. The other was cocked and ready to swing. "Had enough?"

"Ow!" Joker protested. He held a hand to his face. It came away bloody, and the clown smiled, baring a set of pink teeth. "And here I thought we were having some fun! A real  _gas!"_

Too late, Robin got the joke, eyes widening. But before he had the chance to react, Joker's fingers squeezed the boutonniere on his suit jacket. A fine mist of purple gas sprayed into the original Boy Wonder's face, and he fell back. Robin doubled over, hacking and choking and gasping for breath.

Batgirl dispatched the last mad zookeeper and whirled around. Her face went slack with horror.  _"Robin!"_

Joker laughed, as he lay spread-eagled on the concrete. Batman flew over. His hands were on his partners shoulders, and he leaned down. Tim watched Bruce's mouth form the word, " _Dick?"_

Dick's shoulders were shaking with coughs. His breathing got quicker, came out more ragged and high-pitched. Tim realized with horror that his brother's gasps for air were actually gasps of laughter. They got faster and faster. Dick looked up and…

Tim almost fell out of the tree. Steph's hands clapped over her mouth and Jason cursed. Damian looked away, face pressed to the rough bark of the tree.

The corners of Dick's mouth had pulled impossibly wide. His teeth were bared in a ghastly grin. Tears streamed from his eyes, whether from the effects of the gas or from the pain, Tim couldn't tell. His whole body shook with gasps. Eerie, impossible peals of laughter came from him as he grasped at the folds of Bruce's cape with desperation. The two of them sank to their knees.

Tim decided that he never wanted to hear Dick Grayson laugh like that ever again. He didn't want to hear  _anyone_ laugh like that ever again.

"Ha-hah-heh-helpme-hah-ha…!"

Batgirl was at his side in a heartbeat, sliding on her knees as she hurried over. She probed at one of his cheeks with a gloved finger, squinted at something in his eyes, and turned to Batman. Her face was pale, drawn.

"Higher dosage," she said quickly. " _Much_ more than he used on the others. He needs the antitoxin  _now._ "

Bruce picked Robin up, bridal style. He was already sprinting towards the zoo's entrance, cape flapping, and called out over one shoulder. "Take care of the Joker!"

"But—!"

" _Do it!_ "

She turned to the clown, and glared down at the Joker. The look on her face was frightening. And, Tim noticed with a stab of shock,  _much_ more like the Barbara he knew. She moved over and wrenched the Joker's arms behind his back. A pair of cuffs was already in her hand as she started securing the clown.

He was still chortling, even through the river of blood streaming from his nostrils. "Come on, sweet cheeks! Even  _you_ gotta admit, that was hee-haw-larious!"

Batgirl finished cuffing Joker, and shoved him to the ground. He hit the concrete with a small grunt.

"Sorry, clown. I don't get it." Her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

"What?" Joker twisted, readjusting himself to look her in the eye. "What's not to get? The boy-you-hate gets a blast of my best batch of laughing juice, Batsy runs off with his tail between his legs, and  _you—_ " His eyes narrowed as he grinned. "You're left to clean up the mess."

Barbara ignored him, staring at the flashes of red and blue outside the zoo's walls. The GCPD, late to the party, as usual.

"That's what you do, isn't it? Batsy needs a girl to help out around the cave, doesn't he? Clean up his messes, watch his little brat—my, my! It's like he needed a maid instead of an actual sidekick!" Joker giggled. "Face it, sweetheart! You're only around for the PR! A Bat _girl?_  You're the biggest joke of them all!"

Batgirl's face was expressionless. She reached down and dragged the clown to his feet. His back was pressed against her as she leaned in to say something into his ear.

"Let me just make this clear," she said gently, "I'm no maid, and I'm no babysitter. Got it? I'm the &*##^%$ Batgirl. And a joke isn't  _funny_ if you have to  _explain it."_

Joker chuckled and shifted a little. Batgirl's breathing hitched, and Tim watched her eyes widen slightly. But the moment was over in an instant. She shoved him back onto the ground, and kicked him sharply in the ribs. A knife flew out of his hand, skittering on the pavement and leaving a small trail of blood behind it. The drops looked black against the concrete.

"You've got spunk, little girl!" The clown laughed. "I'm going to have to remember that, someday! Maybe when you're legal…"

His laughter sent another chill shooting down Tim's spine, and he winced.

Barbara's gloved hand travelled to her waist. The other curled into a fist. She lifted a boot, and ground it into the clown's face with one powerful blow.

His head lolled, eyes fluttering shut.

Batgirl breathed a shaky sigh of relief, and took a step back.

"Y-you can come out now," she called. "No one's gonna see."

The four of them slid out of the tree. Tim resisted the urge to heave a breath of relief when he felt his boots hit the ground. Standing up straight at last. Steph and Damian both let out sighs, and stretched, arms up, fingers curled.

Jason stepped over to Barbara. "You good?"

She nodded and shot him a lopsided smile. "Uh-huh. Never better."

Her voice was a little weak, and she kept her cape closed around her body. Her smile dipped a little. "But we need to get back to the cave. Batman's going to need my help with the antitoxin."

"Good deal," Jason said. He turned to the others, and jerked his head. "Let's head back."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Tim and the others watched Bruce, Alfred, and Barbara work from a distance. Doing their best to keep out of the way.

Alfred had quickly patched up Barbara's stab wound from the Joker with a few small stitches and bandages. She'd tried to keep it hidden when they'd all made it back to the Cave, but no one ever hid things from Alfred. The Butler always knew.

They'd laid Dick out on one of the Cave's gurneys, and strapped down his arms and legs with white leather buckles. Good thing, too; his laughter had intensified. Now, he was shrieking and making sounds that weren't quite human. Every now and then, he'd lunge, teeth snapping, and Bruce or Alfred would almost lose a finger.

Barbara hovered over her partner, cowl pulled down. Tim couldn't help but notice her furrowed brow, the way she bit her lip, and the way her hand lingered on the Boy Wonder's shoulder. It was the gentlest he'd seen her with Robin so far, and Bruce seemed to take notice of it too. His eyes kept darting up at her, then back down to Dick as he helped Alfred administer the antidote.

Eventually, Dick's shoulders stopped shaking. His laughter faded into ragged breaths. His cheeks relaxed, along with the rest of his muscles. Then, finally, he laid his head back with a sigh and opened his eyes. The first person he glanced up at was Alfred.

"Are you alright, Master Dick?" The butler frowned.

"You know me. Feelin' that aster." He tried a smile, then winced painfully. "Sorry about the mess."

Alfred tsked, and smiled. "Not at all, Master Dick." He reached down to undo the boy's restraints, and helped Dick sit up. "We're all happy to see you pull through."

He winced, and rubbed at his sore cheeks. "Well, maybe not  _all…"_

Barbara scowled, arms crossing over her chest.

"Actually," Bruce said, quirking an eyebrow. "Barbara was very concerned."

"Yeah right." Dick rolled his eyes.

Batgirl huffed and turned away. "Puh-lease. I was—if anything—the  _normal_ amount of concerned. If you died, who could I make fun of? B-man? Alf? I don't think so."

Tim and the others shared a knowing glance. Steph was smirking.

Bruce squared his shoulders as he straightened, and shot them a small smile. "And of course, I just wanted to thank you all for coming out on patrol with us tonight. Your skills are all very admirable."

Jason nodded, helmet tucked under his arm. "Least we could do, Boss."

"We had fun," Steph said, smiling. But it seemed a bit forced.

The undertone was almost deafening. There was no way home. They'd be going out on patrol with the Original Three a lot more often now. Growing up, and forever staying older than their older siblings. They'd have to watch out for their younger selves, all the while watching those younger selves age.

It was enough to put a damper on their enthusiasm. Even if the night had been a success.

A line appeared between Bruce's eyebrows as he glanced over their somber faces.

"Maybe," he mused, slowly, "We could find Booster Gold. Ask him if he could—"

He never got the chance to finish the sentence. A brilliant flash filled the cave, glaring in their retinas. Everyone flinched back, hands flying to faces as they hurried to cover their eyes.

Tim heard the voices first.

"You  _said_ we found the right coordinates!"

"I thought we did! I'm telling you, one more try and—"

"Enough! That's what you said last time! Give it back so I can—"

"Uh…babe?"

"Give it!"

"BW?"

"Wha—oh."

When Tim managed to blink the brightness out of his eyes, he looked up. The first thing he saw was a little golden robot floating in the air. Its bright red light was blinking angrily as it darted around the heads of its travelling companions.

Batman and Batwoman stood in silence, gaping at them.

Steph moved first, then Jason and Damian and Tim. The older Dick and Babs let out relieved cries and surged forwards. And before Tim knew what was happening, he was being crushed between Dick's chest and Jason's arm and Steph's hair. Damian was somewhere underneath him, arms wrapped around Babs's waist. Barbara was muttering hysterically and squeezing them all tighter. Was she crying? Tim was pretty sure.

Their older siblings were holding them so tight that none of them could breathe. Squeezing like they never, ever wanted to let go. Dick's fingers were wrapped around Tim's shoulder so tight that he was probably leaving bruises. But he didn't care. He buried his face in his older brother's chest and sighed. Steph was crying softly into Barbara, gasping in relief.

"You…you idiots," Babs said, fondly. "What were you thinking? What if we'd  _lost you?"_

"Just…don't do that again," Dick gasped, half-laughing. "Okay?"

If possible, the squeezing got tighter. It was like Dick and Barbara were afraid to let go. Like, if they did, their kids would vanish all over again. But, of course, there was always one person who could get Dick and Babs to do the impossible.

"Uhm…excuse me…"

Batman and Batwoman glanced up sharply, and slowly, hesitantly, their arms unwound themselves from their younger siblings. They gazed in shock at Bruce Wayne, who stood a few feet away. Eyebrows raised, arms crossed, he wet his lips and spoke again, slowly.

"Who, might I ask…are you?"

The younger Dick and Babs were staring open-mouthed at the older two. Batwoman's jaw dropped open, and Batman swallowed hard. "Uh…"

"You said we wouldn't run into them," Barbara hissed, eyes wide.

"Relax," Dick said carefully. "Remember what Skeets told us last jump? We can…"

She nodded, in realization of something. "Oh. Right. I guess there  _is_ that."

Skeets dive-bombed her head and buzzed angrily.  _"My programs are not your 'get out of jail free cards'! If you—"_

Barbara's face whipped towards the little robot as she snarled, "Oh. You'll do it. Or else when we get back home again, I'm going to rip out your hard drive and turn you into a toaster oven."

If it was possible for a robot to gulp, this one actually did.

They returned their attention to Bruce, and both their expressions softened. Barbara's shoulders loosened, and Dick relaxed his stance. Then, slowly, as a unit, they reached up. Barbara slid off her mask. Dick pulled down his cowl.

"Bruce," Dick said softly. His eyes were wistful. "It's us."

Younger Babs raised an eyebrow. As she turned to her mentor, she jabbed a finger at her future self. "Um…that's not…right?"

Bruce just stared. Silent. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, seemingly unable to form whatever words were on his mind. It was like the entire situation didn't seem to compute. And his young ward didn't seem to be taking it well, either.

The teenaged Dick Grayson's face had gone unbelievably pale.

"No," he whispered, gasping. "Please."

Dick glanced over at his younger self, eyes softening. "Hey, man."

"No." Robin's voice was more firm as he slid off the gurney. His fists clenched at his sides, and he glowered up at the new Batman. "I'm…we're not supposed to…"

Both Barbara's were glancing back and forth at their partners. The rest of the Batkids stood in silence, just watching as their older siblings interacted with each other. Steph's shoulder bumped against Tim's as she took a step back. She shot him a wide-eyed look, as if mentally asking him the question they all seemed to have on their minds: how was  _this_ going to affect the timeline?

"Waaaiiit a second." Younger Babs squinted and waved two fingers in the air. "Is that…? Then are you…? Are they…?" She glanced up at Bruce, who simply nodded. Her jaw fell open and she let out a gasp.

"Hi," Older Barbara breathed, waving slightly.

Batgirl's eyes flew open wide. "Holy. Freaking. $#^%." She let out a laugh that made everyone jump, and moved closer. She inspected Barbara from every angle, gazing at her future self like a kid in a candy store. "I've got more muscles than  _Hawkgirl!_ Look at my hair! Holy $#^%! I look like a friggin' supermodel!"

Barbara covered her mouth with one red gloved hand, snickering. "Yeah, well. You're not so bad, yourself, sweetie."

"Seriously! Wonder Woman's got  _nothing_ on you…me…us…whatever! We're like ripped Barbie! Awesome!"

Jason snorted, and the others started giggling too. Babs glanced over at them with a sour expression, warring a little with amusement. "Oh,  _ha ha._ What can I say? I  _am_ pretty awesome, if I do say so myself."

She struck a pose, and Batgirl crowed in delight. "And you did!"

"Heeeey!"

"Eeeeey!"

They made finger guns at each other and high-fived.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a heavy sigh. "And now there's two of them…" he muttered under his breath.

Robin was staring up at Dick through narrowed eyes. The tips of his fingers dug into his arms as he crossed them over his chest.

"I thought…" he swallowed and nodded, absently. Then, before anyone else had the chance to stop him, he turned and stepped out of the room. If the Cave was like the one they had back in the future, he'd be going into the locker rooms.

Dick glanced over at Barbara, and the two of them shared a silent nod. Without another sound, the new Batman hurried after his past self, brow furrowing with concern.

Babs bit her lip, and turned to Bruce.

"Hey, Boss-man."

Bruce was staring carefully at her. The look on his face was strange, mixture of a range of emotions. Surprise, sadness, joy. And pride, most of all.

"I'm assuming," he said gently, "That you've got some way of clearing this moment from our minds. Otherwise you wouldn't have removed the masks."

Barbara smiled. "You know us too well, B-man."

Bruce nodded once. Then again.

"Alright. Then tell me how I die."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dick followed Robin into the old training room.

He had to resist the urge to look around and compare. He wasn't a tourist, after all. But he couldn't help but notice the differences—it was a reflex, trained into him just as hard as any jump, flip, or kick. The gym equipment was much more simplistic; just a set of high-bars and a few balance beams. Weights were set up around the room. There were a few mats scattered across the floor, for training, wrestling, or maybe just faceplanting into after a hard workout. The whole thing was exactly how he remembered it being. But right now, he couldn't stop and flip on one of the bars for old times sake. He had a bigger priority.

"Dick," he said. His hand reached out for his own shoulder.

But the kid shook him off. "What do you want?"

He marched away, and sat down on one of the lower balance beams. He rested his elbows on his knees, letting his hands dangle as he stared down at his feet, shoulders slumped in defeat. Dick bit his lip when he noticed tears brimming in the younger boy's eyes.

So, he eased himself down onto the beam, matching the kid's posture. "Hey."

"Hey."

Well, at least he was talking. Dick swallowed, then said, gently, "I know exactly what you're thinking. I remember."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah. It is." Dick rested a hand on the kid's shoulder. "And I'm  _sorry._ But it's going to happen eventually, and believe me when I tell you that there's  _nothing_ we can do to stop it."

Robin's head shot up, and he levelled a hot glare at Dick. Angry tears swam in his eyes as he snapped. "Well what about  _her?_ I noticed she was wearing the bat, too! Why can't  _she_ take it? Why can't it be  _her?_ Just her! _"_ His voice cracked, and he dropped his gaze. "Why me? Why us?"

Dick's head nodded slowly. His arm slid around Robin's shoulders. The words flashed in his mind. His own words, whispered to Black Canary years and years ago: ' _That thing, inside him, that thing that drives him to sacrifice everything for the sake of the mission, that's just not me. And the hero bit, I'm all in, but I don't want to be the Batman…anymore…'_

Dick blinked. Hard. "Can I tell you some things?"

"Heh." He sniffed. "Might as well."

"Alright." Dick shifted a little and sighed, gesturing with his free hand. "So. Next month, Kill Order 2 comes out. The cheat code that will get you an extra 5000 XP and the rocket launcher is Blackassassin1175. Use it. Destroy Bruce and Babs with it, get the high score. All that jazz."

Robin perked up a little. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Repeat after me, okay? Blackassassin—no caps, just one word. Then, one, one, seven, five. Got it?"

He repeated it back, smiling slightly.

"Good." Dick grinned. "Also, the new girl on the Team. Artemis?"

"Yeah. Green Arrow's niece."

"She's not really his niece, FYI. And Wally's crushing on her. Hard. Don't let him hear the end of that, alright? Oh, oh, and when you're seventeen, you get to start leading the Team. It's pretty awesome."

Robin's smile turned into a full-on grin. "Really?"

"Yep. And we're pretty %$#& good at it, too. Also, for future reference, forget about that thing we've got for Bruce's cousin Kate, okay?"

Kate Kane was a few years younger than Bruce. Though they almost never saw her outside of Kane Industries galas, she was around often enough that Dick had developed a serious crush on her when he was younger. Of course, when he was fifteen, he'd brazenly asked her out in a sudden moment of bravery. She'd let him down gently. More or less. (Barbara had held that over his head for  _years.)_

"I don't—!" The Younger Dick looked scandalized.

"Ah!" Dick threw up a hand. "You can't lie to me, young me. I know all."

Robin sighed.

"But seriously. Don't even go there. She's into chicks, and she  _will_ drop-kick you if you try to make a move. Respect her preferences and move on. Capiche?"

"Capiche."

"And another thing." He dipped his head so that he could look his younger self in the eye. Robin hesitated, then met his gaze. "While we're on the subject of 'the do's and don'ts of romance', I just need to mention one more thing, okay? Lay off on Barbara."

Robin snorted. "That's it? Done."

"No, no. I mean  _lay off._ As in, stop giving her a hard time for everything. I know it feels like we've been replaced. Trust me, I do. But it isn't her fault. Bruce picked her up from a pretty bad place, and if he hadn't, then I'm pretty sure we'd be fighting  _her_ for the 'fate of Gotham' and all that." He nudged Robin's shoulders, smiling wanly. "She's had a rough life. Don't make it harder, okay?"

"Yeah? Well what about her? She isn't exactly a saint, either. She's annoying, and selfish,  _and_ a kiss-up, and—"

Dick mimicked Robin's rambling tone. "—and cute, and funny, and so, so smart, and we secretly love that little face she makes when she's thinking really hard, and we love the sound of her voice, and think she has the cutest laugh…"

Robin's cheeks reddened. He scowled, opening his mouth to protest, but Dick cut him off.

"Like I said, man. I  _know all."_ He shook the younger boy gently and said, "You act like you hate her so that Bruce doesn't suspect. And, sure, you're a little mad at her for being the favorite, but guess what? We get over that pretty fast. And besides…"

Dick reached down to his belt with his free hand, and flipped open one of the pockets. Slowly, he eased the little velvet box out, and flicked the lid. It snapped open, and both of them looked down at the blue velvet lining of the box. But especially at the glittering diamond ring at its center, like a pearl inside an oyster.

Robin's eyes were impossibly big. "Dude,  _no."_

Dick laughed. "Dude,  _yes."_

"You can't be serious! Not her! Oh,  _& ^$, _not her!" Younger Dick buried his face in his hands and let out a long groan.

Dick was still laughing as he shut the box and carefully put it back into the belt. He'd had the ring for months, now. Almost an entire year. The day after Wally and Artemis's wedding, he'd snagged his best friend's arm, and told the speedster that it was time. He was ready. (Or at least, as ready as he'd ever be.) The two of them went ring-shopping. But just when he thought he'd found the perfect moment to ask her, to lay everything out and tell her how he really felt…

He froze. He couldn't do it.

Ever since, he'd been waiting for the ideal moment. And for the courage.

"Dude," Dick said. He nudged Robin with a grin. "It was always her."

"But  _why?"_

"Seriously? Because she's the smartest, strongest person we know. Because when we get knocked down, she picks us back up. When we end up having to make the hardest choice of our entire lives…" He tapped the bat symbol at the center of his chest. "She is  _right there_ to keep us sane and help us through it. She makes us strong, Dick. I don't know who we'd be without Barbara. I couldn't imagine our life without her."

And maybe that was why he was so afraid to do it. It wasn't that he was scared of rejection. If she turned him down, he'd understand. #$%%, he was terrified that she'd say _yes_ , and be trapped with him forever. Barbara was…so incredible in every way. And if marriage was supposed to join two people together, so that they could help each other as equal partners… How was someone like him supposed to measure up to someone like her?

Robin groaned and lowered his head to rest on the heels of his hands. "Whatever you say. Any other pearls of wisdom? Or maybe more of those life-altering bits of info?"

"Yeah, actually. When designing a super-suit? Say 'no' to fringe." Dick grimaced. "On a related note, don't design a suit when drunk. Sound good?"

"Uh…"

"Good talk." Dick clapped his younger self on the back. "Now let's head back, okay? Come on."

He got up and started stepping towards the door. He made it halfway before he heard the small voice call out behind him. "Hey…um…Dick?"

Dick turned. Robin had stood up, jamming his hands into the pockets of his suit. He shrugged his shoulders a little, as if trying to project nonchalance, but Dick could tell that something was bothering him. His eyes darted up at Dick, then away, then back. He wet his lips, cleared his throat, and said,

"Does she…like us back?"

Dick paused, then smiled. "Man, I sure hope so. Otherwise I'm gonna have to return the ring."

"And…the others. The Team." He waved one hand towards the door. "The other…Robins. Do they ever stop expecting so much from us? Do we—can we—measure up? Are we—" Robin gulped. "Are we a good Batman?"

Dick was at his side in a few strides. His hand rested on Robin's shoulders, and he managed a weak smile.

"Well, it's just like B always used to tell us," he said. "We're one of the &%*#&#$ Bats. So, no, they're never gonna stop looking to us to fix things. The good news, though, is that we're pretty good at what we do. Train hard, work hard, and you'll do great." He hesitated for a second or two, then cracked a smile as he got to his knees. Now he could look Robin right in the eye. (Had he ever really been this short?) "As for being Batman…I do the best I can. And I know I'm not him, and that I never wanted to  _be_ him. But you know what? Bruce was the one who made those hard calls—the ones that sacrificed everything if it meant accomplishing the mission. But that's not how we do things. We have a family now, Dick. Little brothers, a little sister, and the best girlfriend we could ever ask for." He grinned. "And, they help you realize that you don't have to lose in order to win. We don't have to go into the dark to bring the light. So I guess, in a way, we do make a pretty good Batman. But only because of them."

Robin nodded distractedly. A line appeared between his eyebrows, and he looked like he wanted to protest, or contradict what he'd just heard. Dick couldn't really blame him; he remembered being a pretty stubborn kid.

"Do I always wax this philosophical in the future?" he muttered, rolling his eyes.

Dick laughed, and stood up. "Heh. Comes with being a big brother. You'll see."

Hand still resting on the kid's shoulder, Dick guided his younger self towards the door.

"Just remember one thing, though. Okay?"

"Yeah?"

Dick chuckled a little under his breath. "Just don't forget to smile, Rob. Never stop."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bruce took it well. Barbara finished laying it out for him, even though she was pretty sure he'd forget every word she said soon enough. The hard part was seeing his eyes stray down to the symbol on her chest every few seconds. Then, when she finally stopped speaking, watching his blue eyes meet hers sadly. Hearing the words, "I'm so sorry."

She huffed, smiling a little. "You're sorry? I'm not the one who dies."

"But the burden you two are carrying…it's too much." His face was drawn. "I'm sorry for that."

Seeing Bruce again like this—young, healthy,  _alive_ —was like something out of a dream. And hearing those words? Even more so. She'd missed him so much. The security of waiting in the shadows at his side, fighting in battle at his side, and even long nights of research at his side. Her friend, father, and teacher.

But this…wasn't real. Not really. At the most, seeing him here now was like a memory.

Her Bruce Wayne was gone.

He seemed to sense what she was thinking, because he nodded knowingly. "Listen—"

Before he had the chance to finish, both Dick Graysons stepped back into the room. His voice died as his gaze went to her partner's chest. The large black and silver bat insignia seemed to be even more conspicuous than her red one. But that was probably because it was supposed to belong to the man on her right.

Dick was watching Bruce, too, as he and mini-Dick stepped forward. They finally stopped just a few feet away, and Barbara couldn't help but notice that the thirteen-year-old kept shooting mini-Babs a few red-faced glances.

"So," Older Dick said cautiously. "Were they good?"

Jason and Tim both scoffed. Damian rolled his eyes and Steph clapped a hand over her chest with an offended gasp.

"Really? You're kidding, right?" she demanded. "Were we 'good'?  _We,_ Grayson, were  _excellent!"_

Bruce nodded, smiling a little. "They were. I was actually quite impressed. You two have really done well with them."

"Thanks, B," Barbara said. "But we can't take all the credit."

" _As riveting as this little family reunion is,"_ Skeets cut in sharply. Barbara scowled, and made a mental note to turn that thing into scrap metal as soon as they returned to their own time.  _"I think we have more important business to attend to, hmm? 'Leaving' is one suggestion. 'Wiping these three's memories' is another."_

Little Babs cocked her head to the side. "Wait. What?"

Dick looked sheepish. "Well. See, the only way we can keep the timeline intact is to get rid of your guys' memories of this whole thing. Jason, did you have contact with anybody else? Or just these three?"

Tim, Steph and Damian shot their older brother a sidelong glance, but Jason only shrugged. "Just these three, Golden Boy," he said casually. "Unless you count the baddies we took down on patrol."

"Just thugs?"

"Yup."

"That shouldn't be a problem, then." Barbara nodded. Then turned to her younger partners and self. "It's painless. And you'll never even know we were here. Is that alright with you?"

Both original Batkids hesitated, and looked up at Bruce. He met their eyes, and Barbara could tell that a nonverbal conversation was going down. And luckily, she spoke the language.

Mini-Dick lifted one eyebrow by a fraction:  _Are you sure?_

_They said it wouldn't hurt…_ Babs winced slightly, and shifted her stance.

Bruce's posture was stoic. Face calm, expression unmoving:  _Of course, I'm sure. This is the only way to preserve the timeline._

Batwoman met her partner's eyes, and they shared a knowing smile. The younger ones knew how to read each other, sure. But they'd never fully gotten quite  _this_ 'in-sync'. To be able to tell what the other was thinking just by a glance and an exchange of body language…that took years of working together. Sometimes longer.

Sometimes, Barbara really missed those early days. When it was just her, Dick, and Bruce.

But when it came to her siblings, she wouldn't change a thing.

Finally, Bruce nodded. "We're ready."

Little Babs shifted nervously. She cleared her throat. "It was nice knowing you guys."

"We'll miss you," Dick agreed, bobbing his head. Then hesitated. "Uh, so to speak."

Their younger siblings moved to stand next to Batman and Batwoman, smiling at their younger/older siblings. They shouldered their go bags and nodded to their older siblings. Barbara and Dick twined their fingers together.

"Don't worry," Steph said. "We'll be back!"

Jason shot them finger guns. "See you guys in four years!"

Damian and Tim just waved. Tim had a relieved slump to his shoulders, and a tired grin. Damian was watching Batgirl and Robin carefully with a furrowed brow. Barbara had to remind herself to ask him about that later.

And Bruce, ever the strong and silent type, just smiled softly.

Skeets zoomed over and hovered a few inches away from Barbara's face. It would be so easy,  _so easy,_ to just reach out and knock that tin can out of the air. Just a quick jab, like they did in that one movie she and Steph liked. But, sadly, they needed him to get home. So, destroying that sassy little hunk of wires would have to wait.

" _Initiating travel sequence,"_ he announced.  _"Backup Protocol 'Clean Slate' initiating…travel sequence initiating in five…four…three…"_

She heard Dick's sad, soft voice beside her. "Goodbye."

Bruce started, then smiled at his oldest son. "Goodbye, Dick."

" _One."_

They were swallowed up in a flood of gold light.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The second they touched down in the Cave, Jason let out a whoop and fell to his knees.

"Halle—friggin'—lujah!" He laughed and threw his arms out to the side, laughing maniacally.

Tim stepped past him, shaking his head. "Guess there really is no place like home," he muttered. Wordlessly, he got into the elevator, and headed upstairs. Barbara couldn't help but wonder if he was okay. If maybe seeing Bruce again was messing with his head.

Then, she looked around curiously. The stupid little robot was nowhere in sight. "Where's Skeets?"

"We've still got the cuff, so he should be back, right?" Dick asked, pointing to his wrist. "We'll find him. Maybe take a sledgehammer to him for jerking us around so much…"

"Good riddance, I say."

Steph yawned, then dumped her bag by the Batcomputer. She sauntered past Barbara. "Welp. I think I'll head up to bed too."

"I'll second that," Jason said, popping up to his feet. "Mind if I join?"

Damian's shoulders dropped as he stepped into the elevator. Dick opened his mouth to call him back, but didn't get the chance. The doors slid shut on the kid's sullen expression, and Barbara raised her eyebrows.

"Is he…?" She glanced over at Steph.

Her sister, though, was a little preoccupied with Jason. The two of them were whispering into each other's ears and giggling. But Dick cleared his throat, and Jason looked up quickly.

"Sup?" he demanded.

"Is everything okay with Tim? And Dami?" Dick asked, as he and Barbara shared a frown.

Jason shrugged. "Think we're all kinda wiped. Plus, seeing you two go at it was a little traumatizing."

"To say the least," Steph muttered. "Maybe he's just PO'd about the whole age thing?"

A line appeared between Barbara's eyes. "What 'age thing'?"

"It's nothing. Just that we still thought he was ten, y'know?"

Steph nodded, and absently ran a hand over her boyfriend's arm. "Turns out he's actually twelve. Who knew, right? I mean, besides you guys, obviously."

"Totally," Dick said breezily.

"Right." Barbara smiled, nodding.

That seemed to satisfy the other two. They shared a smile, clasped hands, and got into the elevator together. The older Bats waited for the doors to click shut before whirling on each other, panicked.

"He's  _twelve!?"_

"How the #$%% did we  _miss_ that?"

"Not like B ever gave us a birth certificate!"

"But  _still!"_

"$#^%!"

"&$^#%*$^!"

"This is bad. This is  _so bad!"_

"Is he okay?"

"I don't know!"

"World's greatest detectives my #$$!"

"AAAH!"

"AAAAHHH!"

The elevator doors slowly slid open, and Dick and Babs both froze. Dick's hands were buried in his hair. Barbara's arms were thrown out to the side, mouth open. Their eyes fastened on Damian, who was staring at them, wide-eyed.

Without breaking eye contact, he moved to one of the side tables by the cave walls. His fingers groped for something on top, and curled around the handle of a green plastic hairbrush.

"Pardon me," he said slowly. "I merely forgot Titus's brush."

Batman and Batwoman blinked.

"He requires grooming before bed." Damian explained with a shrug.

Dick nodded, slowly lowering his hands. Barbara watched him paste on a comforting smile as he said. "It's all good, Dami. Titus sure is lucky to have you."

"Are you okay?" Barbara asked sweetly, straightening.

There was a pause. The kid just watched them in silence. Dick and Babs shared a glance, and she saw Dick bite his lip.

"I am perfectly fine." Damian frowned. "Are…the two of you alright?"

"Of course!"

"Yeah, Dami. We're good."

His eyes narrowed. "Were you…arguing?"

"What? No. Of course not."

"Good." Damian twisted the handle of the brush in both hands, eyes narrowed. "Now, if you'll kindly excuse me, I must attend to Titus."

The doors shut once again, and both older Batkids let out matching groans. The heels of Barbara's hands pressed over her eyes. "Okay. Okay, okay, okay. We can fix this. Right?"

"Right."

She lowered her hands, and met Dick's wide eyes. He nodded slowly.

"Then I guess we've got some planning to do, don't we?"

 


	14. Misconduct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Kay, so this one's a little long and heavy, but I had a lot to cram into one chapter. Just a warning, there might be some triggering things in here for some readers. If that's the case, then proceed with caution. But I did stick a little bit of fluff and humor in here, just to even things out a smidge. Enjoy!

 

Every few years, Gotham City officials tore down forests of red tape. Waded through layers of bureaucracy, challenged the societal paradigms. And most of all, they launched add campaigns by the dozens. Billboards, social media accounts, commercials on cable TV. All for one single reason:

Tourism.

Gotham had museums, parks, and even a zoo. They had a stretching, sandy beach, excellent dining options, and great shopping. Maybe that was why the politicians and officials couldn't get it through their thick skulls that tourism in their city was almost completely dead. (But really, who wants to visit a city jam-packed with psychotic supervillains?) Still, though, in good Gotham fashion, they gave it a good old college try. And when the sights and sounds of the city failed to draw in outsiders and their fat wallets, they turned to the only thing that would.

Batwoman was staring at yet another billboard, lit up and gleaming. It had to be the fifth one this month. They'd popped up in Gotham, Bludhaven, Cormorant, Metropolis, and Central City. The other members of the Team had been messaging her and Dick with questions and concerns. And frankly? They didn't know what to make of it, let alone how to stop it.

The words—GOTHAM CITY: COME TRY A LITTLE BIRD WATCHING—were done in yellow. Underneath, a candid picture of Red Robin. Staff out, perched on the edge of a gargoyle. Anyone who didn't know better might have thought that Tim had posed for the picture. But Batwoman was a little too aware of the hidden rooftop cameras set up all over the city. Looks like Tim had gotten careless. Again.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, then read the bright red spray paint under the slogan.

_BUT LOOK OUT FOR THE BIRDS WATCHING **YOU**!_

_ ~THEY'RE EVERYWHERE~ _

_REEEEED ROBIN!_ And of course, the word  _YUM_ scattered around Tim's head like a swarm of bees. In purple paint, someone had drawn a handlebar mustache on Red Robin's upper lip. Along with a monocle and chain. Batwoman didn't need to be one of the world's greatest detectives to put two and two together. She tapped the comm on her cowl and muttered,

"Real mature, guys."

Steph's voice chirped over the line. [ _"Ooh! Didja see it?"_ ]

[ _"Whatsa matter, BW? Can't appreciate our artistic expertise?"_ ] Jason added.

Batwoman didn't smile. "He's going to kill you when he sees it. So's the tourism board."

[ _"Those suits can suck my &*#%. ‘Specially after that one they did of me. And besides. Our precious little Timbo's not gonna see squat, is he? You made sure of that."_]

She made a sound at the back of her throat, and opened her mouth to reply. But Batgirl beat her to the punch.

[ _"Yee-ah…rhino tranquilizers do that to a guy, don't they? Is he_ ever  _gonna wake up?"_ ]

"It was a moose tranquilizer, Batgirl." Barbara sighed. "Let's not be dramatic. Besides. It was for his own good."

[ _"I agree one hundred per-cent."_ ] Jason chuckled. [ _"Besides. I woulda done it if you hadn't. Kid's gonna run himself into the ground at this rate. But he_ will  _be up by tomorrow morning, right?"_ ]

"Of course he will. I was careful with the dosage."

[ _"Good! That's all that matters then. In the meantime, we'll kick some butt and take some names. And get some vids of Timmy snoring. Of course."_ ]

Barbara sighed. She'd been walking past Tim's room the night before, and noticed the dull blue glow coming out from under the door. He'd been pulling yet another all-nighter, trying frantically to stitch together the pieces of his investigation. It had been the eighth night in a row, since they'd gotten back from their trip to the past. She hadn't really thought too much about it as she went and grabbed the tranquilizer from her belt and thrown his door open. In a matter of seconds, Tim Drake was out like a light, and he had been now for about twenty-eight hours.

Barbara didn't have the heart to keep telling her little brother that his searching would be fruitless. Bruce was gone, and nothing was going to change that. What she could do, though, was make sure that he got enough REM to offset the sleep deprivation.

But that also meant an odd number of Bats for patrol. So Dick and Damian paired up, and Steph and Jason went their own way. Barbara had opted to go solo tonight.

And maybe it was for the best. What she had to do tonight, she had to do alone.

So, she sighed. "Just watch each other tonight. Stay together, stay safe. Signing off for now."

[ _"Roger that, Boss-lady. Batgirl out."_ ]

[ _"We'll be fine._ You  _stay safe. Red Hood out."_ ]

Batwoman lowered her hand and gave the billboard one last once-over. Then, she felt something wet hit the top of her head. She blinked, and stuck out an open palm. Another drop splashed into her hand. Barbara looked up at the black clouds overhead and sighed. Patrolling was a little less fun during rainstorms, but at least there were fewer baddies on the streets. She'd play it by ear.

Her eyes landed on the bright circle of light in the blackness. The Bat Signal.

Gordon. Probably had some new case or problem for them to fix. But one glance at her wrist computer let her know that the Batman and Robin were en route. The boys would take care of it, as per the usual. The GCPD preferred working with the Dynamic Duo anyway—it was what they were used to.

All that left her was distraction. The longer she could put this off…the better.

Batwoman pointed her wrist to the sky, and shot out a line. Then, she bit back a breath and leapt off the roof's edge.

In the brightness of Gotham by night, she flew.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Commissioner."

James Gordon jumped three feet in the air, and whirled around. Harvey Bullock almost dropped his donut (chocolate glazed with rainbow sprinkles—nothing but the best for Gotham's finest). Both men frowned into the shadows, eyes squinting to catch sight of the nocturnal crimefighters.

Slowly, Batman and Robin stepped out of the darkness.

"Aw, good. It's you," Bullock muttered, rolling his eyes. He took another bite out of his pastry, and added, mouth full, "Worried we were gonna get 'Edgy Biker Man' or the 'Black Swan'."

Dick glanced at a smirking Damian out of the corner of his eye. He prayed silently that the kid wouldn't dare mention those names to Jason or Tim. He wasn't in the mood to break up another death match. At the same time, though, he fought a smile of his own.

"Jim," Batman said, voice low, "What do you have for us tonight?"

Gordon let out a heavy sigh through his nose. His knobby fingers raked through his hair, auburn on the top, but quickly graying around the edges. Throughout Dick's career, one of the only constants in this city seemed to be Commissioner Gordon. Immortal, unmovable, a force of nature. Like a mountain. Or a monument. Or maybe Alfred.

But Dick wasn't a kid anymore. And Jim Gordon wasn't exactly in his prime either.

"Nothing good, I'm afraid," the Commissioner said. His shoulders sagged slightly. "We have a hostage situation in Gotham Harbor. Harvey has the yard number for you—"

Bullock muttered, stuffed the rest of the donut into his mouth, and rifled in his trench coat's sagging pocket. He held out a folded piece of notebook paper for Robin.

"Victims?" Batman queried.

"The crew of the  _Hyacinth._ Our men have been trying to get to the boat for hours now, but anyone that gets too close to her capsizes. We called in the Coast Guard, but…well. You can probably guess what happened."

"Have any ransom demands been made?" Robin asked.

Gordon fixed him with a tired stare, then shrugged. "Nothing, as of yet. But whoever is behind this is just sitting out in the open. As far as we're concerned, they either have plans to slaughter everyone aboard, or they're planning a trade of some kind."

"Neither of which will happen," Dick assured the two men. "We'll handle it. In the meantime, tell your men to pull back. If possible, we'd like to avoid any casualties."

Gordon pulled a cigarette from his pocket, and searched for a lighter. "Already done. In fact, I've been meaning to ask—"

He looked up. But the Bats were already gone.

"You were watching this time, weren't you Harv?" he muttered, fumbling with the lighter. A spark lit up the end of the cig, and he took a long, slow drag.

Bullock's eyes were wide. "Coulda sworn, Jim. I was starin' right at 'em!"

A white cloud of smoke billowed from Gordon's mouth as he exhaled. He squinted into the shadows, as if trying to spot the edge of a cape or the tip of a cowl. But he knew he wouldn't.

"Well, Harv," he said, smiling a little, "The more things change, the more they stay the same."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Every time Dick jumped off a building and shot out a line, he could feel a sharp familiar tug in his stomach. The quick, fleeting feeling in the pit of his gut that  _maybe_  he shouldn't be doing it. That maybe people weren't meant to fall from such heights. But that feeling flew away just as fast as it came the moment he felt the line pull taut. Then, muscle memory kicked in.

And he flew.

The movement of his arms, his legs, his waist—all of it was automatic. He was born into a family of trapeze artists. Aerialists. And Graysons were born to fly.

Dick wanted to twist in the air. Flip and dive, just like he used to back when he was Nightwing. Or Robin. Or just Dick, the Flying Grayson. But the flapping monstrosity on his back restricted his movement so much that the most he could do was swing.

It was infuriating.

"You're scowling, Grayson." Damian's voice crackled in his ear.

It was always easier to use the comms when swinging. Between the wind, and the distance, anything below a shout or scream would totally get lost in translation. With his free hand, Dick tapped at the side of his cowl and opened his mouth.

"Am not."

"Tt. Are too."

Dick turned his head slightly, watching Robin as they both shot out a second line midair. Every Bat had their own way of moving. A signature, so to speak. Dick moved like an acrobat, streamlined and fluid. Babs was tighter in the way she swung, but she could go faster too. Steph moved a lot like Babs. Tim was swift and strong. And Jason…well, he was kinda like a flying tank.

Damian's movements though were almost like…Dick squinted. The way he rolled his shoulders, swung his feet—every move was disciplined and well executed. The kid moved just like his father. Like Bruce. It made a slight smile pull at one corner of Dick's mouth.

"And now you're grinning. What's wrong with you, Grayson?"

"Nothing, Dami. You just remind me of your dad, is all."

That shut the kid up pretty quick.

Batman and Robin swung around a corner, and shot out new lines. The momentum carried them into the next swing, and Dick could feel a familiar surge in his chest as the wind blasted his face. He let out a whoop as he brought both legs up, increasing his speed. But then Robin streaked past him, smirking as he waved his free hand in the air.

"Oh ho ho! Is that a challenge I smell, Lil' D?"

"Of course not, old man. You are far too feeble to have a prayer of beating me!"

Dick raised an eyebrow, grinning. Was…Damian trying to trash talk him? "Ooohh. Them's fightin' words, kid! Tell you what. Winner helps Agent A wash the Batmobile!"

"You're on!" Damian laughed.

Dick almost missed the next turn. He gaped at his little brother with bulging eyes. Did  _Damian_ just…laugh?

It must have been some kind of a tactical move, because while he was distracted, the kid surged past him. He was gliding through the air, letting out a small whoop of glee. He sounded so…happy. He  _had_ been a lot more…enthusiastic…since he'd disappeared last Saturday, right after they got back from their little time-travel trip. (He'd pinged the kid at the Gotham Rec Center. Probably climbing the rock wall or something.) Dick almost wanted to poke him with a batarang, just to make sure this wasn't another Clayface replacement.

Dami brought his legs up over his head, flipping upside down. He twisted around on his line, smirking at Batman from under his flapping hood. He brought his heels up and together, wrapped them around the line, then spread his arms out to the sides. He swung through the air, back arched and smile a mile wide. Dick let out a surprised shout, and the kid laughed again.

"Hey, I  _taught_  you that! You were actually paying attention!"

"Tt. Naturally," Damian shot back. "Though it would appear that your moves suit me better, Grayson. You may as well surrender now!"

"Oh, keep dreaming, kiddo." Dick smirked. With his free hand, he grabbed his heavy, flapping cape. A few twists and pulls, and he'd tied it around his waist. Awkward? Absolutely. But functional? Of course. "Hey, Dami? Hope you're ready to break out your sponge, cause it is  _on!"_

Dick twisted his wrist sharply, and the line cut off. With nothing to support his weight, Batman fell through the air, arms and legs out, back arched. The wind blasted his entire body, roaring in his ears so loud that he could barely hear Damian's shouts on the other end of the comm. Dick opened his mouth, let out a long, loud laugh, and thrust his hand to the sky. There was a small puff of air, and another line zipped out of his gauntlet. The momentum from the fall plus the sudden change in direction equaled a very, very fast swing. Dick arched his body and zoomed past Robin so quick, that his partner was just a red, black and yellow blur.

"Grayson, you idiot!"

"Some-body's jea-lous!" Dick sang. He flipped three times, then shot out another line. "Not my fault I've got the moves, little bro! Now, let's see what you've got!"

They chased each other all the way down to the Harbor. When the stench of the city was finally replaced by the smell of the sea, they touched down on a tower of shipping crates. Batman heard the slight tap of his boots on the grooved metal, and silently chided himself for the noise. With one smooth motion, he undid the knot of his cape, and it fell back down to his ankles. Damian crouched down on the crate next to him and pulled a pair of infrared binoculars from his belt. They were small, compact, and way more high-tech than what they'd had during Dick's Robin days. Damian twisted them until they were in focus, and leaned forward. Just like that, the Dynamic Duo made the switch from banter to business.

"I see the  _Hyacinth_ ," he muttered to Dick. "Lights are on…I count three armed men patrolling the deck. Two more on the starboard side."

Dick tipped up his chin. "Object in the water. Ten feet from the bow. Can you get a visual?"

Damian twisted his goggles again, squinting. Then, he lowered them and shot Batman a contemplative glance. "Orcas do not usually migrate without their pods, correct?"

Dick reached for the binoculars. "Right."

"And they don't typically have legs and opposable thumbs, yes?"

Batman adjusted the pair of goggles and squinted at the churning waves. Sure enough, a dark fin split the water as a bulky head came up for air. For all intents and purposes, the animal was definitely a killer whale. Except for the muscular arms chopping into the waves as the creature swam around the  _Hyacinth._

"Orca," Dick muttered.

"Yes, Batman. I said as much."

"No, no.  _Orca._ She's a mob enforcer from Bludhaven." He lowered the binoculars with a frown. "What's she doing in Gotham?"

Robin stood slowly. He cracked his knuckles. "Working a job, one would presume. Let's go and—"

Dick threw an arm out, catching his little brother before he had the chance to jump off the crate. "Not so fast, Robin." He squinted at the freighter's silhouette. Then, he reached a quick conclusion. "The ship's a distraction."

"What?"

"The crew's not on board. Neither are the hostiles."

Damian was incredulous. "Yes, they are. We just saw—"

"A few cronies. Probably Whale's Ender thugs from Bludhaven. Orca and the Whale's Enders don't do kidnappings. They prefer gun running and drug dealing. Less…messy enterprises." Batman handed the binoculars back to Robin, who scowled, and collapsed the goggles as he shoved them back into his belt. "My money's on two groups. One to hijack the boat and hold the crew for ransom, and the other—the Enders—to provide a distraction and guard the  _Hyacinth_. In exchange, they get whatever's on the ship."

"A sound theory." Damian nodded. Begrudgingly agreeing with him. "But where, then, would the crew members be?"

Dick grinned. He jabbed a finger at the line of warehouses below them.

"Well, Robin," he said, "Eenie-meenie-miney-mo…"

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I don't like it, man. This whole deal's too risky."

Over by the door, Hodge gripped his rifle just a little tighter. His eyes narrowed behind his gorilla mask as he growled, "Shuddup, Danny. Nobody asked you."

"'Sides. We're already waist deep in this $#^%." Lou gave Danny a pat on the back as he moved to stand next to the merchandise. He cocked his Glock and smirked. "May as well wait for the pay-out."

Danny sighed and took out his own weapon. All night long, the three of them had been holed up in this tiny little apartment. Lou had ordered pizza a few hours back, but that was long gone, and there was nothing else to eat except for the leftovers and expired milk in the kitchen fridge. He knew, he'd checked. And with nothing else to eat, and nothing else to do but stare out the rainy window, they were all getting a bit stir-crazy.

An hour before the pizza boy came to the door, they'd called the owner of this little $#^%-hole. A Mr. Freddie Radcliffe. Informed him that he'd forgot to lock his doors. And they, like any concerned citizens were apt to do, had waltzed in and made sure his family was okay. But the three of them weren't exactly in a Good Samaritan kinda mood. So, they gave the fine gentleman an ultimatum. If he ever wanted to see his lovely wife and beautiful daughters again, he'd better wire five hundred grand into one of Hodge's offshore accounts by three a.m. Just a small fee for their time.

On the floor, one of the two Radcliffe girls let out a pathetic whimper. "Please," she whispered, "Let us go. We promise not to tell anyone!"

"Yeah!" Her little sister bobbed her head. Tears spilled out of her eyes. "We won't!"

Hodge jerked his chin. "Hey, Lou. Shut 'em up."

Lou grinned, and pointed his gun down at the oldest daughter's head. Mrs. Radcliffe let out a sob, and moved in front of her daughter. "Please! Don't!"

"Well, I'm bored." The jagged grin of Lou's cartoon tiger mask almost glowed in the dark. "Hey, Danny. What say we have some fun with these ladies? You in?"

Their captives shrunk down, whimpering, begging.

Danny glowered.

"No, no, I'm tellin' ya," Lou continued. "The little one'd be lots of fun. 'Specially if she screams—"

Hodge sighed. Danny just turned away. "You're sick, man. You know that?"

"Hey. A man isn't sick if he knows how to have a little fun." Lou reached down and grabbed the youngest daughter's arm. All three Radcliffe's screamed, and mother and daughter reached for the youngest as she was yanked away. Lou held her against his chest and pressed the barrel of the Glock to her temple. "Now, tell you what, sweetheart. Be real good and don't bite, and maybe I'll leave you and your family alone. Sound like a deal?"

Danny took a step forward, seething. "Don't—"

The window exploded. Glass skittered across the wood floor in all directions, raining down on Danny's boots. He gulped and looked up at the newcomer, rolling to her knees amongst the wreckage. He spotted one red glove peeking out underneath the black cape. Fingers pressed to the floor, shoulders tensed. She looked up, and rose to her feet. Her expression was dark and cold behind a hard black mask, and it sent a shudder skittering up Danny's spine.

"&^$% it, it's the Bat-&^$%#!" Hodge whirled around. His weapon showered a spray of rounds in her direction. But the Batwoman dropped, and lunged forward. She barreled into Hodge, arms wrapping around his chest. Danny took a step back as she jabbed his partner once in the neck, laying him out cold.

"Don't move!" Lou shouted. He clutched the youngest girl tighter. She whimpered as the weapon dug into her forehead.

The Batwoman stood, dropping Hodge like a dead weight. Slowly, she turned, and looked Lou in the eye coldly. "'Don't move'?" She sighed deeply, clenching one fist. "Wow. Never heard that one before."

Her voice grated against his ears. Danny took another step back, and his shoulder blades pressed against the wall. His own breath blasted hot against his face. If he'd dared, he would have ripped off his plastic mask. The thing was starting to give him claustrophobia. Lou's head jerked towards him, and his jaw fell open.

"Danny!" he shouted. "Back me up, here!"

Batwoman clicked her tongue. "Now, now. Real names? That's not wise, pal. Not wise at all."

Lou was shaking. "I'll kill her!"

The vigilante's eyes narrowed to white slits. "Oh, I believe you."

It was lightning fast. Danny barely saw her arm move, it was so quick. A batarang lodged itself in the back of Lou's hand—the hand he was using to hold the gun. It clattered to the floor as he fell back, letting out a scream. He clutched his hand to his chest, and Danny could see the gleaming black tip jutting out through his palm. Blood trickled down his wrist in rivulets as he panted, moaning.

"Aw man, aw man, awmanawman…"

The girl crawled away, joining her mother and sister. They gasped, holding her tightly.

Batwoman started to move towards Lou, and Danny finally raised his weapon. It clicked, and he watched her freeze. "Don't t-take another step!"

Her chin dipped down a little. "You three graduate top of your class in 'Cliché Thugs Academy' or something? Let me make this simple for you, then. Danny, is it? Drop your weapon, go stand by your friend over there, and cuff yourselves to the radiator. I'll wait."

"Can't do that," Danny said. "I can't go back to jail."

"Uggghh. I rest my case." Batwoman groaned. "But at least in prison, you'll have plenty of time to think up some better lines, pal. Now. You have five seconds."

"No."

"Four. Three. Two—"

Before he knew what he was doing, Danny pulled the trigger. The bang made him jump, and he was surprised to see Batwoman hesitate. Her lips were open slightly as she stared down at the splintered hole in the floor by her boot. Then, she darkened.

"Big mistake."

She lunged. Danny had no time to react before her knuckles raked across his jaw. He hit the floor hard. His arms were wrenched behind his back, and he let out a slow wheeze. Batwoman clicked a pair of cuffs over his wrists, and dragged him across the floor to where Lou was crouched. His partner was whimpering, rocking back and forth. Batwoman cuffed him too, and threw Danny onto the floor next to him. Both men pressed their backs to the wall, and tried to ignore the woman standing over them.

She turned her head slightly. Towards the Radcliffes.

"Go," she said softly.

The youngest daughter stood, and reached out. Before the Bat-lady had time to protest, she was wrapped in a tight hug. The girl's arms wound around her waist, and she sobbed into Batwoman's cape.

"Th-thank you! Thank you so much!"

The mother and older daughter were crying, hugging the dark vigilante with equal enthusiasm. Batwoman seemed a bit taken aback, but she softened, embracing each of them before stepping away.

"Your husband called the GCPD a few hours ago," she said to Mrs. Radcliffe. "There's an officer outside. Detective Montoya. She and her men have the building surrounded. Take your daughters and get to safety. I can take it from here."

"How can we ever thank you enough?" Mrs. Radcliffe whispered. Her eyes were brimming.

"Just take care of your girls, ma'am." Batwoman smiled slightly, then glanced down at the younger girl. She reached into her belt, and pulled out a small black object. With a click, it slid open. A sharp batarang. Slowly, she passed it over to the girl. "What's your name, sweetie?"

The girl's eyes were wide as she accepted the present. Her finger traced over the sharpened edge. "Charlie."

"Charlotte. But we just call her Charlie," her mother corrected with a shrug. She ruffled her daughter's rusty curls fondly. They were darker than her mother's and sister's blonde heads. "Our little misfit."

The girl leaned into her mother's touch, grinning at the nickname.

"Well, Charlie," Batwoman said, smiling a little. "That's a batarang. I want you to use it to protect yourself. And your family. Can you do that?"

The girl nodded. "Thank you, Miss Batlady."

Batwoman nodded back.

The women stepped toward the door. As soon as it clicked shut behind them, the vigilante turned her attention back to the thugs behind her. Danny shrank back as she reached for him. Her fingers grasped the dollar-store frog mask on his face, and pulled it off. Then, she slid off Lou's.

Both masks clattered to the floor, and she took a step back. Her breath hitched, and her white eyes widened. Her whole body seemed to freeze, tensing up so completely that she might have been made of stone. When her mouth opened, her voice shook with barely controlled rage as she said,

" _You_."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Barbara couldn't make herself take a breath. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she looked at the men's faces. Something red and searing was blazing through her as she stood over them, cuffed and helpless at her feet.

It was almost ironic.

These men… She recognized them now. In her mind's eye, she could still see them in their loud Hawaiian shirts. Flanking a monster as he leered at her from the library doorframe. Smirking at her while their boss pressed the barrel of his pistol into the soft flesh above her hip bone. A phantom pain needled in her back, right at the base of her spine.

Barbara's mouth twisted into a snarl as she leaned down. She couldn't keep the hatred out of her voice as she said, deathly quiet, "Do you know who I am?"

The man's eyes were wide. Danny, if she remembered the name right. "B-Batwoman! Right?"

Her hand darted out, and she grasped the front of his shirt in her fist. Her teeth ground together as she stuck her face in close to his. "Do you  _know_ who I  _am?"_

She flicked open another razor 'rang, and pressed it under his chin. He swallowed hard, whimpering.

"I don't! I swear, I don't! I—" He cut off sharply, eyes staring into hers. She watched them trace over her face, searching desperately. Then, he wheezed a little, coming to some silent realization. His pupils contracted. "Oh. Oh, &^%, it's…it's  _you…"_

The other man panted on the floor, but Barbara couldn't bring herself to look down at him just yet. That one—that  _creature—_ made her stomach churn. Instead, she focused on Danny.

"So you do remember," she growled. "Good. That'll make this easier. At least, if you decide to keep sharing."

He gulped again. "That job…that job wasn't…he was gonna kill us if we didn't…"

"I'm sure he really twisted your arm," she spat. Her fist shot out, and she thrust him against the wall so hard he let out a soft wheeze. "Tell me. Danny. Where's the Joker, now?"

"We didn't…we didn't do anything to you…we—"

White hot rage lit up in her chest. Barbara pressed the batarang in harder. A scarlet ribbon of blood flowed onto her fingers, trickling down her wrist. Danny whimpered and gasped.

"You didn't do anything to me?" she hissed. Her eyes stung, brimming. But she blinked the moisture away, and spoke through her teeth. " _You didn't do anything to me?"_

A thousand images and sensations flashed in her mind, and she shuddered violently. Barbara bit down on her tongue until the searing pain brought her back to the present. Forced her to focus. The man she held in her fist seemed to realize his mistake. His face drained of all color.

"I didn't," he whispered, wide-eyed. "I didn't. It was just the boss. And Lou. I didn't—"

"No." The venomous words dripped off her lips. "You just watched. Stood there while the  _boss_ took what he wanted. Stood there when he passed me off to your friend for a turn." Her eyes narrowed impossibly, seeing red. Slowly, she leaned in, lips close to his ear as she whispered, "Maybe  _you_  didn't lay a hand on me, Danny. But honestly? I…don't…care."

Her arm jerked up. The tip of the batarang sliced through Danny's skin, all the way up through his left eye. The man screamed as hot, wet blood streamed from the wound, soaking her fist, soaking his shirt.

"Don't be so dramatic, hon," she snarled. "It's not fatal. You'll have a nasty little scar, though. Something to remember me by. Maybe you'll even need an eyepatch."

"Puh…puh-please!"

She dropped him. Danny slid down the wall, leaving a long, smearing red stain on the wallpaper. He slumped to the floor, shuddering and gasping. His soft, hurried breaths rang in her ears as she turned to his partner.

"Hello, you," Barbara growled. The bloody batarang clattered to the floor. Drops of red spotted the wood boards around it.

The man—Lou, Danny had called him—looked up weakly. His bleeding hand was still clutched to his chest. "Ahm…sor—ry…" he slurred. His eyes were glazed over in pain. "Won' do 't…again…"

Her boot landed in his side. He gurgled and curled into a fetal posture.

"Shut up," she snapped.

"Whaddyou want?"

"Joker." She took a knee, looking the man right in the eye. "I want _Joker._ Where is he?"

"Dunno."

Her fist wrapped around his neck. She squeezed, feeling his racing pulse beating even through the fabric of her glove. The sound he made, strangled, desperate…it sent a chill through her. She pursed her lips.

"Aw, relax, sweetheart. Just a bit of breath play." The corners of her lips turned up slightly. But it wasn't a smile. "Was that what you said to me, that night? I'm pretty sure it was."

"I don'—"

"Joker," she barked. "Tell me  _now."_

Something glinted in Lou's eyes. Something like defiance. A smirk curled up his face as he said, "Yeah? Or…what?"

Barbara squeezed tighter. "Or else I'll break your fingers, hon. But, then again…maybe I'll do it anyway."

Her free hand snagged his, and she found his index finger. The one on his good hand. Lou struggled, eyes widening, but she gripped the digit firmly, and smiled sweetly at the monster in her grasp. "Last chance, Lou. Wanna make my day?"

"I—"

Barbara ripped his finger back. There was a sharp, sickening crack. Lou let out a blood-curdling shriek, eyes squeezing tightly shut.

"No, that's not right," she growled. "I asked you where to find the Joker. The  _correct_ answer should come in the form of a place. A &^%$ location. Give it to me or the next one's your thumb."

"Pleas—"

_Crack._

"Joker. Now."

"I don'—"

_Crack...Crack._

Lou's screams were almost deafening. Danny was shaking like a leaf as he pressed his hand to his bloody face. His gaze never left her face, remaining eye wide and brimming. Barbara ignored him, instead grasping Lou's last remaining finger. The other four were jutting out at odd angles, twisting like tree roots. Already, dark bruising was starting to appear on his skin.

"You disgust me," she hissed. "You are  _filth._ And the only reason I don't snap your neck here and now is because I know exactly what they do to your kind in Blackgate."

She didn't mention the other reason: the sound of Bruce's voice screaming in her ear. To stop. To back away. To let them go, and stop. To just… _stop_. Ask the question, get the answer. What would he think of her, if he could see her now? She could picture his jaw hardening, his stern glare.  _Enough. This is not how we do things. Justice, Barbara. Not vengeance._

Barbara shook her head a little and wet her lips. "So tell me. Where. Is. _Joker."_

Lou's nose was streaming, dripping into his mouth as he croaked, looking up at her, "L-last I heard…he was in…the outskirts…don' know the…address."

Barbara threw him aside, ignoring his sharp cry when he hit the floor. She didn't even flinch when he curled into himself, gasping quietly. Danny's hand reached out, resting on Lou's shoulder.

"There. Isn't that better?" She turned, and swept her batarang up off the floor with one hand. "I'll leave you two to the GCPD. Have fun in Blackgate boys. Sorry if I hope you don't last long."

She almost made it to the door. Her fingers were a hair's width away from the knob. Then, she heard a soft, guttural chuckle.

"Best I…ever…had…" Lou wheezed, snickering. Every word seemed to be a struggle, but he still managed to say, "Hit me up ag'in sometime…we'd have…fun…"

Barbara felt a wave of nausea in her stomach, and swirl of it in her skull. So intense, that she almost doubled over to empty her stomach. Instead, she bit the inside of her cheek, scowling. "Says a lot about you, then, if your 'best' was a paralyzed nineteen-year-old girl. Doesn't it?"

"Whatever…you say… _sweetheart_ …"

He forced out a bout of laughter. It grated against her ears, setting her teeth on edge, sending a shudder licking up her spine. And that was before the flare of heat in her backbone. Right where the bullet had penetrated all those years ago. Leaving her helpless and bleeding on the floor, completely at the mercy of monsters…

Lou's laugh wasn't… _his…_ laugh. Joker's laugh. But it was close enough. Barbara felt her fingers close into a fist. So hard, that her knuckles popped a little. And still, it didn't stop. The thug chuckled, snickered, snorted. Mocking her. Lauding the memory of her humiliation. Barbara grit her teeth.

"Ah, what the #$%%," she muttered.

She whirled, lunging.

Barbara pinned Lou to the ground. Her fist connected with his jaw, his chest, his shoulders. Once, twice, five times, twelve times… She could see red—buzzing in her vision and dripping off her knuckles. The sensation of bones crunching under her knuckles drove her on and on, until she could hear the man's painful croaks. Even then, she didn't stop. Blood spattered. Teeth flew.

And through it all, she thought of Joker. The maniacal grin, that bloodcurdling laugh. The gun, the blood, the pain, the heat, the…all of it. Just…all of it. She'd never forget a single detail of that night.  _Never._

Danny was shouting something, but she couldn't hear. All she cared about was beating the man beneath her to a bloody pulp. Barbara snarled, raising her bloody fist.

But something snagged it before she could bring it back down. A hand, wrapped around her wrist.

"That's enough," someone said.

Another hand snaked down to her other fist. Slowly, the newcomer pulled her arms behind her back, and coaxed her to her feet. Barbara didn't protest. She moved where she was told, silently staring down at the bloody heap at her feet.

Lou was lying in a crimson puddle, and his face was almost unrecognizable. He let out a small whistling breath from his nose, but kept quiet.

"Canary," Barbara said dully.

"Batwoman." Dina's tone was undecipherable. "I think you got him."

Her voice was flat, weak. "What are you doing here?"

Dina said nothing, only pulled her further back. Away from the two bleeding thugs. Their boots left dark streaks on the wood floor. Together, they turned towards the window, and Dina waited until Barbara climbed out onto the fire escape to follow her.

Both women made their way to the roof in silence. The only noise was the sound of their boots on the iron rungs, the ambience of the city by night, and the pattering of the rain on asphalt and concrete and metal and glass. It soaked their hair until it clung to their shoulders. The drops traced down Barbara's cape in rivers, running down her face until she wasn't sure whether they were tears or just raindrops.

When they reached the top, Barbara took a deep breath. The air was cleaner now. Fresher. It always did that during rainstorms, and just after too. As soon as the air rushed into her lungs, it staggered out in a shaky exhale. Her gloves floated in front of her face, and she could see the blood in the cracks and grooves, darker against the already dark fabric.

Dina was watching her carefully, arms crossed tight. Her eyes searched her friend's face for something, but Barbara was too distracted by the images in her head to decide what.

Then another thought swam in her mind _. What had she just done…?_

She'd been able to see everything. His pressure points, his muscles, his bones. She'd known where everything was—as if she'd had a perfect map in her head, telling her which places would knock him out and which points would be fatal if hit just right…All the years of Bruce's training flashing before her eyes. He'd always taught her the moves in their entirety first—what  _not_ to do—before he showed her how to change them, transform them into something nonlethal.

Maybe that had been a mistake. A  _big_ mistake.

She let out another rasping sigh.

"Are you good, then, red?" Dina finally asked. Her arms came unfolded, and she rested two fists on her hips. "You went pretty dark in there for a sec."

Barbara looked up slowly. "I—yeah. I'm fine."

Black Canary raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Mm-hmm. Well, I was just passing by—looking for  _you,_ actually—when I noticed the broken window. Those kinds of things tend to catch my eye."

"Looking for…?"

"Yeah. You." Dina huffed. "We agreed to meet back in the old neighborhood, remember? The rendezvous?"

Barbara blinked.

She waved a hand. "With the Talon? Otherwise known as  _Cal?_ Is any of this ringing a bell for you, at all?"

"…oh. Yeah. I remember."

Dina's gaze was piercing. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Batwoman's wrist shot up as she fired off a line into a nearby roof. She squinted in the rain, and mentally plotted her course, before turning back to her friend.

"I'm fine, Di. Race you there?"

Canary eyed her warily, then nodded once. "Why bother? I'll lose."

"Because you love me," Barbara shot back, batting her lashes. Her lower lip stuck out in a small pout.

Dina glanced down at the street a few dozen stories below, and back up to Batwoman. Then back down again. She sighed. "Ugh.  _Fine._ But if I die, I'm gonna kill you, babes."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Considering how your plans usually go, I suppose this wasn't the  _worst_ outcome."

"Aw, thanks, Robin. Your compliments are always the shining highlights of my day."

Batman and Robin pressed their backs together as they circled. Fists up, feet spread, shoulders squared. And surrounded on all sides by hostiles. Turns out, Dick's initial assessment of the situation had been a  _bit_  off. Were there two groups of baddies? Affirmative. But he hadn't thought to expect that one of those groups was the crew of the  _Hyacinth_ itself.

A mutiny. They'd killed off their captain and first mate right after they made a distress call, and struck a deal with the Whale's Enders that would benefit them both. Namely, they would frame the Bludhavenites for the coup and the murders, ensuring that they'd all get off Scott-free. In exchange, they'd join the Enders and share the spoils aboard the ship together. And as for the precious cargo? It was all valuable equipment bound for Wayne Enterprises. The kind of game-changing tech that was sure to tempt any sailor, gangster or thug.

Batman and Robin had found the right warehouse. But they hadn't counted on resistance from the people they were trying to rescue. And now, they were completely outnumbered, slightly injured, and very,  _very_ ticked off.

"So, tell me, Popeye," Dick snapped. He glanced over to one of the crew's leaders. Tough guy with an underbite that reminded him vaguely of the cartoon character. "You got your cargo. You've been backed by one of the most powerful gangs in Bludhaven. And now you've got us. So…what now?"

Popeye the sailor man smirked. He tapped a crowbar into his palm slowly, and Dick could hear the methodic slap of metal against flesh. The thought crossed his mind that if Jason were there, he'd probably take one look at the thing, then start shooting. Or screaming. Or both.

He was kind of glad Jason wasn't there.

"Easy," the sailor said. "We're gonna gank you boys, nice and slow. After that? Well, we go down in history as the guys that finally killed the big bad Bats. Ain't nobody gonna mess with us, then."

Batman nodded slowly. "Hmm. Yeah. Okay. You could do that. Or—"

"—we could kick your collective #$$%$," Robin finished.

"I think I like that plan better. How about you guys?"

Popeye lunged, bellowing. He swung the crowbar at Dick's head, but Batman ducked easily and swept to the side. Clicking his tongue, he sighed, "Not smart, pal. Not smart at all. Robin?"

Damian perked up. He shot Dick a questioning glance. Batman nodded, grinning.

"Alley—!" He shouted.

"Oop!" Robin flipped into a front handspring, leaping into the air. Batman caught his ankles and swung him around the ring of advancing thugs. Damian threw out his fists and caught a dozen different jaws at once. Bad guys toppled all around the circles like dominoes, but they just kept on coming. Dick let go of Robin's ankles, and Damian flew through the air. He twisted, flung out a barrage of birdarangs with one sweeping arm. Then, he brought his boots down onto one sailor's bulky face, using it as a springboard to launch himself back into the fray.

Dick was so proud of him.

Batman himself flicked the holsters at his sides, snapping open the clasps with his thumbs. He slid out the sleek pair of escrima sticks into his waiting palms and spun around just as Popeye came up again with his crowbar. The clang of iron on polymer rang in his ears as he blocked the rod from crashing into his skull. Popeye's eyes widened, but he recovered fast. The sailor's leader swung his free fist towards Batman's head, but Dick jerked back, then swung his forehead into Popeye's nose, earning a sharp cry. The man was too busy recovering to defend himself, and Dick took him down with one expert whack of a stick.

Just as fast, he whirled around to swing at a thug's knee. There was a sharp clack, and the man screamed, collapsing into a heap. Batman ignored the sound and kept at it, swinging and kicking in all directions as the men and women kept coming. Every now and then, he caught a flash of yellow, but Damian was moving too fast to properly spot.

When the sailors and Whale's Enders were all laid out cold on the ground, Dick took a deep inhale and spun the escrima sticks with his fingers. Then slowly, slid them back into their holsters with a click. Robin dropped the last thug and wandered over to Batman, dusting his gloved hands off on his tunic.

"Good work, Robin," Dick said, smiling.

He expected a roll of the eyes, or maybe a 'Tt, it was too easy, Grayson' out of the kid. But instead, Damian just smiled a little, nodding.

"Good work yourself, Batman."

They made their way to the roof, climbing metal stairs and navigating grated catwalks. But when they finally reached the top, Dick sat down on the flat roof and swung his legs out over the edge. From here, he could see the black ocean and watch the white and gold slivers of light from the city bounce on the waves. The salty breeze hit his face, and he let out a long sigh.

Slowly, Damian settled down next to him, feet kicking lazily at the air. "Is everything alright, Grayson?"

Dick nodded, still fixated on the water. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the  _Hyacinth_ bobbing on the choppy waves. But Orca and her crew were nowhere to be seen. They must have fled the scene as soon as they realized their backup was gone and their plans were ruined.

"I'm all good, Lil' D," he said warmly. He glanced at his little brother out of the corner of his eye, and saw that Damian's eyes were focused on the horizon. "But I can tell something's bugging you. Care to share?"

He was quiet for a few minutes. It was long enough that Dick could feel a prickle of discomfort, wondering if he'd said something wrong, or maybe upset the kid somehow.

Dick had been a big brother for a long time. First with Jason, then later Tim and Steph. #$%%, he'd even worried over the younger members of the Team during his first few years as Nightwing. It was just something that came naturally to him. But Damian…was different. More closed off and standoffish than any other kid Dick had taken under his wing.

He worried about it, sometimes. That he wasn't helping him enough. Wasn't being the brother that Damian needed.

But then, Robin spoke. "Being in the past was…off-putting."

Batman nodded slowly. "I'll bet. But it must've been pretty cool, too, right?"

He nudged Damian's shoulder, but the kid didn't respond. He stared coldly out at the horizon, hands folded neatly in his lap. Dick's small smile melted.

"No," Damian said softly. "It was upsetting. You and Delphi…fought. Like you hated one another."

His words were stilted and slow, as if he was having trouble finding the right words to match his faster thoughts.

Dick hesitated for a few heartbeats, then said, "I never hated her, Dami. Not really." He gestured a little with his hands. "It's just that, sometimes, when we love somebody, we have a hard time telling them. So we, uh, fall back on something that's easier. For me, I guess that was jealousy."

"Regardless." Damian shrugged. "It was disconcerting. You and Delphi were not meant to be at odds."

Dick watched his little brother's face. Damian had schooled his features into nonchalance, but Dick could tell that there was something deeper bothering him. At the same time, he felt a stab of guilt. He knew that Damian looked up to him and Babs, to a certain extent. It must have been a bit of a shock to see two people he respected rip into each other like that.

But there was something else.

"We're not at odds, Lil' D. Don't worry." His tone softened. "But, if you don't mind me asking, what's  _really_ wrong?"

More silence. It was as if Damian had the words, but wasn't sure how to say them. Dick studied his face, and detected notes of hesitation, and fear, and anger. He shifted and turned his body a little towards the younger boy, ready to listen.

Then finally, he heard Robin clear his throat. He opened his mouth and said, voice tiny, "It's…the others. They  _hate_  me."

Dick straightened. "What?"

"I know that I'm not…good. With emotions. I don't understand most humor, and I find it hard to…to  _empathize._ And I can't—" Damian's voice died out a little. But then he swallowed hard and continued. "I am insufferable and arrogant. And therefore, everyone is right to hate me."

"Damian." Dick brought his arm up, wrapping it around Robin's shoulders. He flinched a little, but didn't resist. Something broke a little in his heart as he watched the kid's whole frame slump over in defeat.

"No one hates you," he said softly.

"Todd does. He finds me annoying. And short." Damian's legs stopped swinging. "Brown thinks that I'm evil. She tells me so, all the time. And Drake. He sees me as an inferior. A  _replacement—"_

That word stabbed at Dick's chest, and he winced. "Damian—"

"They think me callous and arrogant. A 'devil-child'." He paused for a beat, face pinched painfully. "A demon."

Dick opened his mouth, but found that he couldn't make any sound come out.

The kid sniffed a little. He reached up, peeled off his mask, and swiped the back of his glove over his eyes. "So, yes. They  _hate_ me."

And in that moment, Dick wanted to kick every other sibling he had in the #$$. Sure, they negged and heckled Damian all the time. That was just how they bantered, how they did things. He'd thrown his own good-natured insults around all the time. Babs, too. The others took it in stride.

But apparently, Damian didn't.

"I have plans," the kid continued, softly. "to improve. I promise. I can be better, and—"

He didn't get the chance to finish. Dick wrapped his other arm around Damian's chest, and pulled him in fast. Robin was tiny in Batman's arms as he held him, and struggled a little at first, before going limp.

"What are you doing?" Robin wondered softly.

"I'm giving you a hug, Lil' D. Something I don't do near often enough."

Dick squeezed, burying his face in the kid's soft hair, and closed his eyes. The two of them stayed just like that. Silent, and listening to the other's breathing. Batman cupped one of Robin's shoulders in his palm. His other hand pressed against the kid's back.

Usually, Damian hated physical touch of any kind. The occasional hug from Barbara or hair ruffle from Dick were the only exceptions. (Aside from sparring or fighting, obviously.) But now, to Dick's surprise, he pressed himself deeper into the hug, and his own arms came up to wrap around Dick's chest.

"…I miss Father," he whispered.

"Me too," Dick mumbled into Robin's hair.

"But…" He swallowed. Batman could feel the jerk of his throat. "I'm grateful for you and Delphi. You are the only...parents I've ever… You don't…hate me. Right?"

Dick squeezed his little brother even tighter. "Never," he breathed.

He could feel Damian relax. As if he'd been holding tension in his arms and shoulders, and it all just suddenly melted away. Then he whispered again, voice softer than Dick had ever heard it.

"Thank you, Richard."

Dick smiled as he felt a little thrill shoot through him, and chuckled a little. "Richard, huh? Does this mean I get to graduate from 'last name only' status?"

Damian let out a small groan, burying his face deeper into Dick's chest. "Perhaps. But only  _sometimes,_ " came the muffled reply.

Dick knew that Ra's and Talia had taught Damian to always use people's last names. (Maybe not 'taught' so much as 'drilled the habit into his head'.) In the League of Assassins, it was a combination of etiquette and principle. Everyone called each other by last names—whether real or fabricated—or titles in order to preserve identities. And maybe it was just more professional that way. Bruce had tried to explain it to him once, but Dick didn't really understand all of the nuances of League culture.

Still, though, he  _could_ understand—and appreciate—just how hard it was for Damian Wayne to call him by his real name.

"Fair enough." His smile widened, and he held his Robin closer. "But for what it's worth, Dami, nobody hates you. Everyone in our whole family  _loves_ you. Me, Babs, Jason, Tim, Steph, Alfred, Titus." He squeezed tighter and felt his grin fade a little. "It's just that…not everyone's very good at showing it all the time."

That was met by silence. Dick could tell that his little brother wasn't quite convinced.

"But I'll tell you one thing," he continued. "You, Damian Wayne, are a pretty amazing kid. I couldn't ask for a better partner. Or a better brother."

Damian's shoulders hunched a little, then started shaking.

Dick's hand rubbed over Damian's shoulder blades. "Hey. It's okay, buddy."

The kid's sniffles were muffled by Dick's suit, but he could still hear the small gasps as Robin cried.

"I love you, kiddo."

Damian sniffed one more time. Then, softly,

"You, too."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dina followed her through the door.

The back room was dark. Much darker than she remembered, and a lot warmer too. That was to be expected, Batwoman supposed, since the storage room had a very different kind of storage these days. Instead of bags of flour, there were rolled up yoga mats. Balance barres instead of wooden pallets. Box speakers instead of mixing equipment.

Batwoman turned slightly to Black Canary and muttered, "Welcome to Blue Jasmine Studios, formerly Fanucci's Little Italy."

She waved a hand over the room, and Dina let out an indignant huff.

"Are you freaking  _kidding_ me?" she demanded. "They turned it into a yoga joint?"

"They do Zumba, too," Barbara added with a shrug.

The two women glanced around, silent and watchful. A hundred million fragments of memory needled at the edge of Barbara's thoughts. Right over there was where she'd first learned how to use a knife. Dina had taught her with a butter knife 'borrowed' from the front of the restaurant. And over there was where the three of them, Barbara, Dina and Calvin, used to sit around a dim flashlight and tell ghost stories on the nights it was too cold to go out and mingle with the other street kids.

Dina's smile was twisted into something wistful. But both of them kept their eyes away from the floor, and the stain where the concrete was just a little darker than the rest.

Barbara heard Canary clear her throat. Then, she said softly, "You scared me in there, Babs."

Batwoman crossed her arms. "Oh?"

"Yeah. That was…brutal. Even for you." She shot Barbara a sidelong glance, but Batwoman didn't meet her eyes. "What brought that on?"

Barbara studied the room, looking for points of exit, entry and cover. She knew there was someone in the room with them. Could  _feel_ it, thanks to the years of training Bruce had drilled into her. Somewhere, maybe behind the stack of yoga blocks, someone was breathing soft and shallow. But not shallow enough. She pretended not to notice.

"They were there," she finally said. "That night. You don't know what they  _did."_

Dina's forehead wrinkled. "But still."

"More importantly, they worked with  _him._ I was trying to get his location out of them."

"Then dangle them over the side of a building. Manipulate them. I don't care." Dina gestured with one hand, frowning. "But don't  _gouge their eyes out!"_

Batwoman levelled a glare at her friend. So intense, that Canary shrunk back a little. She spoke slowly, intensely.

"I'm  _not_ sorry, Dina."

Dina bit her lip, glancing off to the side. She spread her feet apart a little farther, as if preparing herself to stand against an attack. "Look. I'm  _sorry_ that I wasn't there that night. I should have been with you, I know that. But…it's over, Babs. It happened, and you came through it." She waved a hand at Batwoman, eyes widening. "I mean, look at you now! You have your  _legs_ back! Do you know how many people would kill to be in your place?"

Batwoman looked away.

"All I'm saying is," Dina added, softly. "That you, Barbara Delphi, are  _free._ Move on. Don't sink to their level."

For a moment, they both stared coldly at each other. Barbara could understand where Dina was coming from. But that didn't take away the rage, especially when she thought of those two men.

"Thanks, Di," she said drily. "That makes it all better."

Black Canary reared back, stung.

But before either woman could say anything else, they heard a sound. The small click of a light switch.

A rack of fluorescent light tubes flickered to life over their heads, and Barbara squinted in the sudden brightness. When she recovered, she saw the Talon.

He stood at the edge of the room, his gloved fingers still resting on the switch.

He stared at them.

They stared at him.

Dina's eyes narrowed, and she squared her shoulders. "Talon, I presume?"

"Yes." His amber goggles focused on her, and Barbara watched his whole stance relax. "I guess you could say that."

Barbara wrapped her arms over her stomach. Dina mirrored her.

The Talon shifted a little, obviously uncomfortable, then glanced around the storage room. He cleared his throat, and said, carefully,

"Why don't we take this conversation elsewhere?"

Dina and Barbara exchanged a glance. Batwoman shrugged one shoulder.

"I know a place."

 

 

* * *

 

 

The little bell over the door jingled as they pushed it open.

Stella's Diner was almost completely empty this time of night. Probably since it was close to three in the morning. But, like most places in Gotham, the little restaurant was open twenty-four hours a day. Unlike most places in Gotham, though, Stella's had a very…accommodating staff. The kind that were willing to look the other way when a group of capes wandered through the front door.

The middle-aged woman behind the counter barely glanced up when the three costumed adults stepped into her diner. Out of habit, she whipped her notepad out of her lacy yellow apron pocket and nodded to Batwoman.

"Good to see you again, hon. How's your night been?" she asked conversationally. But her eyes roved over Batwoman's blood-stained uniform.

Barbara shrugged, managing a small smile. "Busy, as per the usual."

"Keeping our streets safe. Better than those coppers can, at any rate." Fannie clicked her tongue and turned to the small window behind the counter. "'Ey, Jimmy! Break's over! We've got some capes in here! Go ahead and sit anywhere you'd like, honey. Be with you in a sec."

That last part was aimed for the three customers. Canary and Talon glanced at her, and Batwoman nodded to the corner booth. The cracked red plastic seat covers squeaked underneath them as they slid into place around the table. Dina and Barbara positioned themselves across from Talon, who was staring out the window. The bronze claw on his fingertip clacked against the stainless-steel tabletop nervously.

Batwoman looked down at his finger, up to him, then reached up and pulled the cord on the blinds. They whirred and came down with a clap.

"So," she said carefully, letting the cord fall from her fingers. "Let's just make sure you're really who you say you are."

Dina leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the table.

Talon fixed his stare at them. Then, slowly, reached up for his cowl.

"What can I get you started off with tonight?" Fannie stood at the end of the table, pen and notepad in hand. She raised her eyebrows expectantly, pursing her red-painted lips.

Batwoman slipped the menus out of a box by the window, and passed them around to her companions. Dina tapped hers on the tabletop with a pointed stare at Talon, then glanced over it.

"I'll take an order of your boardwalk fries," Barbara said casually, not even bothering to open her menu. "And your strawberry shake, please."

"Could I get your chopped almond salad?" Dina asked. "And a water."

Talon stared down at his menu. His finger slid from item to item, and Barbara could tell by the way his cowl moved that he was mouthing the names to himself. The three women stared at him patiently, until he finally looked up and said, carefully,

"If it's alright with you, ma'am, may I have your double cheddar jalapeno chicken burger, please? With fries."

Fannie took their orders down with a scratch of her pen. "Mm-hm. Perfectly alright with me, honey. Don't worry, you can speak up. I don't bite! Much, that is. Can I get you anything to drink?"

Talon hesitated. "Um…hot chocolate, please."

"So polite," Fannie said with another slash across her notepad. "Reminds me of that little Red Robin boy. Is he comin' tonight? I need to know so I can start another batch of coffee.  _Hoo,_ that boy can drink."

"It's just us tonight, Fan," Barbara said pleasantly. "Red Robin's getting some…much needed rest."

Fannie tapped the pad with her pen and smiled. "Good. He'll stunt his growth if he keeps stayin' up so late. He's short as Jimmy's temper on a Wednesday.  _Any_ ways, we'll have your food out in a jiffy. Just sit tight."

She swaggered off to the back to join Jimmy in the kitchen, out of hearing range and out of sight. The Bats and the staff at Stella's had an unspoken agreement. Namely, the Bats needed privacy during their meal (just in case any of them accidentally dropped sensitive information) and in exchange, the Bats tipped  _very_ generously. They were some of Stella's best customers.

"So," Dina said, slowly. "Where were we?"

Talon reached up, and balled the edge of his cowl in his fist. He paused, then heaved a shaky sigh. It slipped off his head, and he looked up at them warily. Barbara and Dina both bit back a gasp.

Calvin Rose looked like a man in his late twenties, much older than Barbara remembered him. (She guessed that was to be expected.) But he was…different. Same shaggy, tawny brown hair. Same hard jaw. But his face was pallid, with an almost gray tinge. So pale, that she could see the winding blue veins under his skin. He blinked, noticing their shock, and Barbara caught a full glimpse of his liquid gold irises. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot. Not with red blood, but with black.

He reached up, and scratched the back of his head. "I…um…"

Dina's green eyes were wide and brimming. "Oh &#%. It  _is_ you."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, in that lop-sided smile that they remembered so well. "More or less," he said weakly.

Barbara stayed silent, watching Dina and Cal size each other up. To even things out a bit, she reached up and lifted off her own mask, setting it on the table next to Calvin's cowl. His eyes flickered over to her, and his face went slack.

"Both of you," he said. "You're both so grown up."

"Well, look at you," Dina shot back, smirking. "Who taught you to talk all 'proper-like'?"

She'd slipped right back into the bowery accent typical of most street kids in Gotham. The kind you eventually picked up in alleys and backlots, whether you'd been born there or not. Cal flashed a smirk of his own, and leaned forward a little. He rested his muscular forearms on the table, just inches away from Dina's.

"Been a while, since I been allowed to talk normal," he drawled. "The Court doesn' like street talk. But what's  _your_  excuse, pretty bird?"

" _My_ excuse, huh?" Dina's smile was smug. "I could always talk proper, Cal. Just picked up some bad habits from  _you."_

"Yeah? Well, I remember you havin' some 'bad habits' of your own."

Barbara leaned back in her seat, arms crossed. Half of her hair fell over her face, and she blew it away with a huff.

"Look at you two. Would you stop fighting already?" She pouted, sticking her lower lip out for dramatic effect. "You're tearing this family apart."

Cal chuckled. "Ha! And you, B-girl! What's your excuse?"

"Me?" A hand fluttered to her chest, and she mimicked their accent, though hers had never been as good as the others’. "I've been livin' it up with a billionaire. He's got this butler who's pretty into proper talk. You guys're just lucky I don't have a Brit's accent."

Dina tipped back her head and laughed.

There was a sharp  _ding,_ and Fannie swept out of the kitchen with a large round tray teeming with food. Barbara put a hand over her eyes like a visor, and tipped her face down to the table. Fannie didn't mind—she was used to it. She just hummed and placed their food around the table. Barbara's milkshake glass clinked by her elbow, and the smell of warm salty fries hit her nose and made her mouth water.

They thanked Fannie, and she gushed. "Anything for our city's finest. Keep on keeping on! Ooh, and Jimmy says 'hi'."

"Hi Jimmy!" they all shouted. There was a happy yell from the kitchen.

"Thanks, Fan," Barbara said pleasantly. "Have a nice night."

"You too, honey. You too."

Fannie retreated back through the doors, and Barbara looked up. Slowly, their eyes all roved down to their steaming plates, and instinct kicked in. They all dug into their food, and for a moment, it was like the old days. Meal times had always been quiet. No talk, just eat. Get as much food into your belly as you could before someone had the chance to run by and take it from you. Eating like you didn't know where your next meal would come from, or when it would be. Or even if there would be a next meal. Just food. Going in, filling you up.

Dina sneaked a few of Barbara's fries, letting out ecstatic moans. Cal devoured his burger, and rolled his eyes like he was in pure, unadulterated bliss. Barbara did notice, though, that he kept eying the ice water and milkshake warily. As an experiment, she nudged her glass closer to his elbow. He flinched, and eased away from it casually.

_Hmm._

She finally hit the bottom of her basket of fries, dipping the last few into her shake. The combo of cold and hot, sweet and salty, was absolute heaven. First time she'd been here as a tiny eleven-year-old, Bruce had taught her how to do that. She'd been skeptical at first (French fries and ice cream? Gross!) but relented after watching him stuff the dripping fries into his mouth with a hesitant smile. And then, after that first time, she was hooked for life.

"This. Is.  _Divine,"_ Dina sighed (after stealing a little milkshake). "How did you ever find this place, Babs?"

She swirled the last of her fries in the pink ice cream and held it between her forefinger and thumb. "Oh, it's a popular haunt on patrols." She popped the fry into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Then, with a swallow, she said, voice dry, "In fact, I came here with Batman the night he found me in an alley. Saved me from a group of Bengals. You remember those guys, right? Took me here, offered me a job, and gave me the first real meal I'd had in  _months."_

Cal choked a little on his cocoa. A few drops splurted out of the mug. Dina's salad-laden fork froze a few inches from her lips.

She knew the apologies were about to roll in—even though she'd managed to keep most of the bitterness out of her tone—but Barbara waved her hand and spoke before they could. "But we're not here to talk about me. We're here to talk about  _you,_ Cal. Like, what the #$%% did those &#$%!%&$  _do_ to you? Aren't you supposed to be dead? How long have you actually been alive, and just not told us?"

Okay. Maybe a little bitterness managed to creep into that last question. She could see him flinch a little, but kept pressing.

"Who are the Court of Owls? What do they want with this city? And what does that have to do with this?" She tapped the symbol on her chest. "You said 'the Bats of Gotham are in danger'. What does that mean?"

Dina set down her fork and levelled a stare at Calvin. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed down the last of his hot chocolate. Then, with a sigh, he set it back down onto the tabletop with a clink.

"It started just a few days after I died," he said slowly. And then, even more slowly, his story began to unfold.

Calvin Rose had woken up in a bath of green water.  _Lazarus Pit,_ Barbara suggested, but he shook his head. The Court of Owls had devised another means of bringing people to life after they were dead—or, as he put it,  _cleansed._ Upon resurrection, these people were given heightened strength, speed, and stamina, making them the perfect soldiers to fight in the Court's loyal army. Devoted pawns, and loyal warriors.

Talons.

But there was a catch; they couldn't survive long outside the Court's lair. In order to preserve their soldiers, the Owls cryogenically froze the Talons, keeping them for years, decades, and even centuries. But too long outside the cryo-pods, and Cal's altered biology would start to degenerate. He would die a painful, agonizing death.

The Court, Calvin explained, had only one goal: complete, uncontested control over Gotham City. They consisted of the city's wealthiest and most powerful families. Just the kind of people who wanted to hold that kind of power in their hands, and  _keep_ it. But in order to do that, they needed enforcers.

"The Talons," Calvin said, his bowery accent disappearing, "Are chosen from a pool of potential child candidates hand-picked out of Haly's Circus. Every generation, the circus parades the kids before the Court, and they choose one to be their next Talon."

"Let me guess," Dina said dryly. "You were the lucky winner."

He swallowed hard. "Actually, no. I  _was_ a candidate. Jack Haly saw what I could do as an escapist, and he recommended me to the Court. But they chose someone else. Then—"

"No," Barbara snapped. Her arms were crossed over her stomach, and she glared down at her empty glass. She could still hear the earnestness in Dick's voice as he told her about his old friend. "Jack Haly's a good man. I can't believe that he'd be involved in this."

Cal shot her a sad glance, but plowed on. "Then the Flying Grayson murders spooked the Court. Suddenly, their chosen candidate was scooped up by Bruce Wayne and placed completely out of their reach."

Like she'd been struck by a bolt of lightning, Barbara shot upright. "What are you saying, Cal? That  _Dick_ was…"

"Yes. Your partner was supposed to be the Court's next Talon. But when they lost him to Wayne, they decided that the two runner ups would have to do. Me, and another boy from the circus. Even I don't know his true identity, but he and I have been tasked with keeping an eye on the Court's most recent interests."

Barbara sat back in the booth, still reeling. Cal's eyes dipped down a bit, then he looked at her carefully.

"They want constant intelligence on the Bats, Babs. They know who you are, and their plans for you have already been put into motion."

"Great." Barbara ran a hand through her hair. "They know our names?"

"Yes. Everything. Names, aliases, locations, backgrounds. You name it, they know it."

 _Which,_ Barbara thought briefly,  _explains how Hugo Strange knew what he did. Looks like my little theory on his 'source' was right._

She waved a hand. "But, plans? What do you mean, 'plans are in motion'?"

Dina was glancing back and forth at them, leaning on the table for support. She sighed deeply through her nose as Cal straightened in his seat.

"Your Batman, Richard Grayson, is what the Court has called—for generations—the 'Gray Son of Gotham'. A direct descendent of the Court's first and greatest Talon. They want him for his bloodline, and for the skillset he'd bring to their organization. But…"

He hesitated, and shared a brief glance with Dina.

"What?" Barbara's eyes narrowed. "Go on, Cal."

"But," Cal continued, balling his fists nervously, "They've been looking for  _you,_ too. For years. Or, more specifically, for Barbara Kean."

"Why?"

"The Kean's were an influential family in the Court's early days. But their representatives were killed off decades ago, and they've been looking for the last surviving member of your family ever since. Which would be you, B-girl." Cal's golden eyes flashed.

Barbara studied his face carefully. There was something he was holding back. Something he wasn't telling her.

"But?" she demanded.

He started, then shrunk down into his seat. "They…want you for the Court, Babs. I don't know what for. Whether as an 'in' with Wayne Enterprises, or as a way to control Grayson…I honestly couldn't say. But the Owls want both of you. And they're willing to destroy the rest of the Bats to get you."

"Destroy…?" Her eyes widened. "So, what, then? Are we being targeted, Cal? Do I need to be looking over my shoulder for assassins?"

"I—"

Barbara swept aside her empty dishes and planted her forearms on the table. She leaned forward, eyes narrowed and said, "I need to know right now if my family's in danger, Calvin. How much does the Court know, really? Do they know where the Cave is?"

"No."

"Do they have concrete plans to kill my siblings?"

"Not yet."

She jabbed at the tabletop with one finger. "Then give me a way to stop them. I need a way in. Like the Circus, or the gang factions. So tell me right now, Cal. What route do I take, what steps do I need to make, to bring them down?"

Calvin's eyes were sad, and his posture wilted. Softly, he asked her, "You really watch out for them, don't you?"

"Of course, I do. They're my family." Barbara's eyes narrowed. "And I made a promise."

"That's all well and good." He nodded. "But…who looks after you, B-girl?"

His eyes flickered down to the blood on her suit, in her hair, on her face. Something cautious burned in his irises.

"You keep them in check. Who…does that for you?"

She froze, jaw tight. An unexpected pang bloomed in her chest. Calvin glanced at Dina, then back to Barbara, and slowly, he wet his lips. He leaned back into the booth with a short, small moan. His voice came out papery thin as he whispered,

"Alright. There might…be a way. Listen very carefully…"

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dick carefully eased the edge of the comforter up over Damian's shoulder. The kid was letting out small sighs as he breathed, slow and even. His eyes were shut, and Dick realized that when he was asleep, Damian seemed almost…peaceful. Like a normal twelve-year-old. One who didn't have to worry about gang bangers, drug dealers, or gun runners.

He felt a small stab of guilt. "Why you, kid?" he whispered. "Why did you have to have a life like this?"

But Dami was too unconscious to offer up any answers. Dick smiled, and turned to walk out into the hallway.

The manor was quiet this time of day. It was only about four-thirty a.m., and everyone was going to be asleep for the next few hours. Dick made his usual rounds, navigating through the halls and peeking inside his siblings' rooms. He checked Jason's room to be sure he got in on time, and found the Red Hood splayed out over his bed, mouth open and snoring. Steph was tucked under her blankets with her purple glittery eye mask in place over her face. And Tim…

Dick huffed a little out his nose when he saw his middle brother laid out flat on the floor, face down. He must have rolled out of bed sometime during the night. His hands hooked underneath Tim's armpits as Dick hauled him back up into bed, and rolled him over onto his back. Then, he had to resist the urge to laugh.

"Well," he muttered, "Looks like Steph and Jay found the markers again."

He could have sworn he'd hidden them better this time around. Maybe he'd have to look into a few more secure hiding spots. Somewhere they'd never think—or dare—to look. Like under the floorboards. Or in Alfred's closet.

Tim's door slid shut with a click, and Dick found himself stepping towards Barbara's room. He peeked inside, and saw that her bed was still made and unslept-in.

She wasn't back, yet.

Maybe her talk with the Talon had gone on longer than expected?

Dick nibbled his bottom lip. If she wasn't back in an hour, he'd go out looking. But in the meantime, he needed sleep.

He'd need his strength for the day ahead.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Barbara flipped the switch on her cycle, and the engine instantly stopped humming.

She didn't bother with the kickstand, just dropped the whole thing. It clanged loudly on the metal floor, but she made no move to set it upright.

Zombie-like, she wandered past the Batcomputer, past the training room, and past the lockers. Her boots dragged on the floor, making soft stuttered whispers. The showers were just behind the locker room, and she reached out numbly to turn the handle.

The pipes shivered and creaked. Streams of water burst out of the shower head, and Barbara stepped underneath it, still fully clothed. The warm water trickled over her head, soaked her hair, dripped down her mask, onto her body armor, and flowed off her cape.

She heaved a heavy, shaky sigh, and pressed her forehead to the shiny gray shower tiles. It offered her some substance to lean against, something concrete to ground herself with. In a way, it was almost comforting.

Slowly, her muscles relaxed, warmed by the shower. She breathed in slowly, filling her lungs with steam. Barbara looked down at her boots, and watched the water swirling around them turn a light pink. Then orange. Then crimson.

The blood—Lou's blood, Danny's blood—flowed from her uniform down the drain. All evidence of her brutality gone. Though, if Barbara were to look into a mirror, she was almost certain that she'd see the same haunted, piercing stare glancing back at her. And she shuddered.

Cal's plan… _her_ plan…it was…

Barbara wouldn't think about it. Not just yet.

Her eyes fluttered shut. She thought of Lou, and the sound of his bones snapping under her fists. The feel of skin tearing as she sliced through Danny's face. Blood spurting out of his torn eye socket. The screams… Something like excitement seared in her veins.

No. That wasn't quite right. Not  _excitement…_ more like…

Barbara couldn't pinpoint a word for the rush in her blood. The only phrase that came to mind was Bruce's mantra, the one he always spoke in her ear during training and missions and patrols.

_Justice. Not Vengeance._

The words swirled in her head like the water swirling in the drain at her feet. Building and building as she heard Bruce's voice. Screaming at her now, and when she'd held both men—the monsters who had taken part in her destruction—at her feet. At her  _mercy._

And for the first time, she had the thought. That maybe… _maybe…_ her mentor had been wrong all this time.

Justice, Bruce had always argued, was different from vengeance.

But those men. Those  _scum._ They got  _exactly_ what they deserved. She snapped a rapist's fingers so that he'd never touch another innocent victim. She scarred the other's face, taken his eye, so that no one would ever turn a blind eye to him, the way that he'd so passively turned a blind eye to his own crimes.

On the tiles, her fingers curled into a fist. Something hardened in the center of her chest. It filled a hole, black and gaping, that had been festering inside of her since the moment the Joker's gun went off and killed Bruce Wayne. A hole that had grown deeper the day they'd lowered his casket into the earth. When she'd seen her siblings break. Seen the hopeful light in Dick's eyes flicker out.

" _Vengeance."_

The word rolled off her tongue, and her mouth filled with water.

Then Cal's voice filled her head.

" _Who looks after you?"_

It echoed in her skull. First, she thought of Dick.  _He looks after me…doesn't he?_ But did he really? That was…different. He trusted her, sure. Supported her, even. He had her back, no matter what. But partners watching each other's back in the heat of battle wasn't…the same thing. He didn't watch her the way that their mentor had. Bruce had always looked after her. Kept her…moral, kept her on the straight and narrow.

But now…

Barbara raised her head. Then with one jerk of her arm, she tore off her mask and flung it away. It clattered to the tile floor, and she fell to her knees.

"I do," she hissed into the steam. " _I do."_

She kept everyone safe. Kept them in check. It was a promise she'd made to Bruce mere seconds before he'd been shot. She and Dick both. Their siblings, their city, all of them were safe under the watchful eyes of Batman and Batwoman. And Batwoman kept her Batman safe, just like their father would have wanted.

But the Talon was right. There was no one to keep  _her_  in check. Not anymore.

The first sob tore out of her throat in a desperate gasp. Then her chest heaved with another.

She wrapped her arms around her middle, holding herself together as she let out the sounds trapped inside of her, jaw unhinging and stiffening to stone. Her tears mingled with the water streaming down her cheeks.

What had she done? The fear in those men's eyes…the blood…the screams…

And she'd  _loved_ every second of it. Oh, &^#. Oh,  _& ^#._

What had she done?

She promised herself she wouldn't do it again. She could watch her own actions…keep herself out of that abyss...the one Bruce always warned her about…

Right?

"I do," Barbara gasped. "I look after myself."

And something inside of her broke.

 


	15. Surprises

 

“Da-mi-an."

Barbara's voice was gentle and sing-song-y as she shook her youngest brother's shoulder. When he didn't respond, she tried again. This time a little harder. But instead of opening his eyes, Damian groaned and dug down deeper into his 'nest' of pillows and blankets. Until she could only see a little bit of his hair peeping out from under all the bedding.

"Dami," said softly. "Wake  _up."_

" _Nnnnno."_

" _Yes."_

He shifted, and his green-blue eyes appeared over the edge of his bedspread, narrowed and squinted as he hissed, "Pennyworth says that if I do not receive adequate rest, I will stunt my growth."

Barbara sighed, and pulled back the covers. Damian squawked, and tried to yank them back, but Barbara held firm. "Yeah, well. Alfred says a lot of things. And you should listen to him. Just…not right now."

She stepped back from his bed and pulled open the curtains. The room was suddenly illuminated with morning sunshine, and Damian gaped at the clock. The little green numbers read  **7:14**.

"Delphi," he growled, "Why are you waking me up at this obscene hour? Are you trying to  _kill_ me? I demand an explanation."

Barbara hummed and pulled a shirt out of Damian's closet. She laid it down on his bed, pleasantly smoothing out the wrinkles, and smiled. "You have school today, kiddo. Don't want to be late."

" _School_ does not  _begin_ for another  _hour!"_

"Hour and a half, actually." Barbara shrugged. She stepped out of the room, hand on the door knob, and added, "But you don't wanna be  _late,_  right? Get dressed and I'll take you downstairs, okay? Now in the words of the great Alfred Pennyworth: chop, chop!"

The door clicked shut behind her, and Damian let out a snarl. He hurried to shed his pajamas and wriggle into the clothing Delphi had selected for him, all the while glaring at the wall. He'd only gotten three hours of sleep! Perhaps he would be able to take a short rest in Biology. Dr. Langstrom surely wouldn't notice…

When he left his room, Delphi was there waiting for him with a close-lipped grin.

"Ready?"

They started down the stairs together, and Damian matched her long steps. He shot her a confused glance. "I don't need an escort to breakfast. What is going on?"

"You'll see."

"Brown broke my cycle again, didn't she?"

Barbara didn't say anything. Just smiled as they passed the living room.

" _Did_  she?"

"No."

"My katana, then?" A rush of fear made his throat tighten. Damian whirled on his older sister, eyes wide. "She didn't break my katana, did she?"

Delphi actually had the nerve to snicker! She reached out and grasped the knob to the kitchen door, pausing only to look back at him. "She didn't break anything, Dami. Let's go have some breakfast, alright? Ooh, and—" Barbara leaned down and whispered into his ear, "If you see Timmy this morning? Do. Not. Say. Anything."

"What?"

" _Anything."_

They stepped into the kitchen. For whatever reason, all the lights were out. Damian hoped that this wasn't another surprise training exercise. It was too early for that sort of nonsense. Still, he tensed up, waiting for his siblings to pop out of the shadows with nerf guns or water balloons. Honestly, nothing would surprise him at this—

" _SURPRISE!"_

Damian flinched as people jumped out from various places around the kitchen. Grayson popped up from behind the fridge. Todd and Brown had huddled behind the kitchen island. Drake under the table. Pennyworth was standing stoic beside the light switch. Even Kyle had shown up, and was standing by the door with a small smile. She waved a little at him. And over by the sink…Damian froze.

Maps, Olive and Colin were all standing in front of the kitchen sink, holding a brown frosted sheet cake with a few green and red candles sticking out from the top. They grinned over at him and waved. Maps was almost bouncing in place.

"What are you doing here?" Damian asked, voice weak. He was still gaping at the kitchen.

Balloons and streamers in red, yellow and green had been strung up around the room. They dangled from the ceiling and the cupboards, hanging down festively. Brightly wrapped packages were set out on the kitchen table.

Maps beamed. "It's your birthday, silly!"

Olive shrugged. "Your brother called us. Surprise?"

"We got you  _chocolate cake!"_ Colin gushed.

Dick grinned, and clapped his hands. All eyes turned to him as he waved his arms and said, "Okay, everybody. Let's sing to the birthday boy and have some cake! We've got an hour, and we're gonna make the most of it!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Your brothers and sisters are  _so_ cool!" Colin said, accepting a plate of chocolate cake from Pennyworth. "I wish  _I_  had so many!"

Barbara chuckled as she watched Damian accept his own plate. He stared down at the dessert with a confused frown. The cake was moist and rich, and was decorated with a generous amount of fluffy chocolate frosting. Barbara and Dick had tried for a while to decide on what the kid's favorite flavor might be—before ultimately deciding that one could never go wrong with chocolate. Alfred had been more than happy to oblige.

"They're…okay," Damian said slowly. Then, he took a bite. His eyes bugged out, then slowly travelled down to the dessert on his plate.

"Whoa," Maps said. "You okay, Damian?"

"It's like he's never had cake before," Olive said with one raised eyebrow.

"Of course I have!"

Barbara felt something graze softly against her arm and looked up. Right in time for Dick to brush his lips against her forehead.

"Hey, you," he said.

She smiled. "Hey, yourself. Gonna have some cake?"

"Eh. Maybe later." He pulled back, and stood next to her, watching the party in progress.

Damian's opened presents littered the kitchen table, scattered between crumpled pieces of wrapping paper. Alfred was still serving up cake, while simultaneously trying to keep it away from Titus. The dog kept snuffling against everyone's legs, looking up pitifully at anyone who made eye contact. Jason and Steph were stealing pieces of each other's desserts, and getting chocolate crumbs everywhere. A lethargic Tim was slumped over at the kitchen table, picking at his cake halfheartedly. Someone had drawn large thick glasses over his eyes in black marker (but Barbara doubted he'd even noticed them yet). And Damian's friends were firing off questions about the manor, the butler, the dog, and the older siblings. ("Why is everybody so friggin'  _buff?"_ )

Barbara was just glad that she and Dick had been able to track down their little brother's 'allies'. And now, having met them, she definitely approved. With any luck, they'd help Damian to come out of his tough shell just a little bit.

"So." Dick nudged her shoulder a little. "What happened to your cycle?"

"Hmm?" She was still staring over at Tim. Something was definitely off, and it wasn't just the after-effects of the moose tranquilizers.

"Must've fallen over last night."

She shrugged. "Must have."

Dick was silent then. The kind of silent that meant he was studying her. She turned her head to return his watchful gaze, and raised an eyebrow. He reciprocated.

"How'd the talk with your old friend go last night?" he asked.

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"Yeah," she said firmly. "It was fine."

Dick's eyes narrowed. Slowly, his arms crossed over his chest as a steely resolve hardened his features. "Okay. What happened?'

She reared back. "What do you mean, 'what happened'?"

He dared a glance over at the other people in the room, just to be sure that no one was watching or listening. Luckily, everyone was too busy enjoying their cake, and paying their compliments to the chef. Then he refocused on her. " _Something_ happened. You didn't come home last night. I was worried. And when I saw your suit—"

She froze. "You what?"

"—there was blood on it," he finished in a whisper. A concerned line appeared between his eyes, and he laid a hand on her arm. "Are you hurt?"

Barbara relaxed slightly. "No. No, I'm fine. Just a little tired."

Somehow, her boyfriend didn't seem convinced. "Then what happened? The showers are full of—"

"I don't," she snapped, causing her boyfriend's eyes to widen a little, "want to  _talk_ about it. Is that alright?"

"Babs, I—"

"Well, you two. It's been a little too long."

Selina Kyle sauntered up to them, smiling softly. A plate of half-eaten cake was clutched in one hand. They were lucky that she'd been able to make it on such short notice. Ever since Bruce's funeral, Catwoman had made herself scarce.  _Extremely_ so. Barbara supposed she couldn't really blame the cat-burglar-turned-vigilante, though. The silver and diamond ring glittering sadly on her left hand was all the reason Selina needed. Bruce had died before they ever had the chance to…Barbara bit her lip.

"Hey Selina," they both said.

She must have noticed their forced smiles and stiff postures, because one immaculate eyebrow crept upwards. "Trouble in paradise?"

Both of them started, stammering.

"No!"

Dick ran a hand through his hair. "Of course not. Just talking."

"Hmm." Selina set her plate down on the kitchen island and turned back to them, arms crossed. "Well. That's good." Her eyes settled on Dick, and the corner of her mouth quirked. "And getting better, I hope? Have you—?"

Dick swallowed hard. "Not…yet. How's your cake?"

Barbara cleared her throat meaningfully, and edged away from the other two. "I think I'll let you two talk, yeah? Somebody needs to check on Tim."

Dick's eyes were pleading, but she ignored him and stepped over towards her younger brother, who was still picking thoughtfully at his cake. She slid out one of the chairs with a screech and sat down carefully. Tim didn't even look up, just hummed to acknowledge her presence.

She leaned over, smiling softly. "Hey, Timmy. How are you feeling? Better?"

Tim blinked. His fork made little trails in the chocolate frosting on his dessert. "Hey…did you ever think about how bats' wings are basically just skin stretched tightly over elongated fingerbones? So, like, their wings? They're their actual  _hands._ So they…like…" He waved a hand vaguely, and let out a high pitched giggle. "Fly with…the power of  _jazz hands."_

Barbara could feel her eyebrows creep further and further up her forehead. "Uh…"

Tim set down his fork and stared, shocked, out the kitchen window. Completely silent. Barbara stretched out a hand, ready to shake his shoulder and bring him back to the present. But then his jaw fell open as his head whipped around to gape at her. "Babs," he gasped. " _We're_ bats! Where's  _our_ jazz hands!?"

"I, uh, guess that answers my question, then," she stammered, getting shakily to her feet. "Let's get you to sleep, and I'll call your teachers to—"

Tim snorted and took a large bite of his cake. He chewed, shooting her a smug glance, then swallowed hard, letting out a pleased sigh.

"Ah, relax, BW," he said, grinning. "Just messing with you."

"Huh?"

"Yeah." He sliced back into the dessert with his fork, smirking. "I mean, thanks for the extra sleep and all. But moose tranquilizers? Really? Next time, watch your dosage. How long was I even out?"

Barbara let out a dry laugh and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Not long enough, Timmy. Not by a longshot. You good, then?”

“I mean, my mouth’s a bit dry, but other than that…” he shrugged.

She gave him a light tap on the shoulder, then turned to the rest of the party. Jason and Steph were begging Alfred for more cake, while the butler kindly—but firmly—put his foot down. Dick and Selina were exchanging words and sharp glances (She could tell that her partner was uncomfortable, but at the moment, she didn't want to face an interrogation from him  _or_ Catwoman). Meanwhile, Damian's friends were gathered around Titus, cooing and petting him all over. The Great Dane's nose was in the air as he let out a satisfied huff, clearly adoring the attention.

The guest of honor was standing off to the side, holding an empty plate of cake in both hands as he watched his 'allies' melt over his faithful hound. Barbara made her way over to him, snagging an unwrapped package off the kitchen table—one of the last ones left.

"Hey, kiddo," she said breezily. "I've got one more present for you—"

Damian raised an eyebrow as Maps, Olive and Colin perked up.

"—but you'd better open it downstairs. Would your friends mind if I stole you away for a minute?"

The kids shrugged, returning to the dog (who'd rolled over onto his back to allow for belly rubs) and Damian nodded carefully.

He followed her through the manor's halls in silence. They passed the bust of William Oscar Wayne, but neither of them kept with the family tradition of mumbling the ancestor's initials sarcastically (" _Wow…")._ Instead, they said nothing all the way to the grandfather clock at the end of one hallway. Damian watched her patiently as she turned the hands to 10:42 exactly. The clock slid aside, and both Batkids stepped wordlessly into the elevator.

Once they reached the Cave, Damian cleared his throat. Barbara turned to him just in time to get the full brunt of his questioning glance.

"So, Delphi," he said, arms clasping behind his back. "Judging by the size of that particular package in your hand, I'm guessing…books?"

Barbara smiled, and handed him the wrapped present. He glanced up one more time, searching her expression, then ripped off the paper. Revealing a small box of sharpened graphite pencils and a leather-bound book filled with creamy blank pages. As he flipped through them, he hummed a little.

"Blank."

"That's right," she said. "I figured you might want to try your hand at sketching."

Damian raised an eyebrow. He held the book in both hands, with the pencils balanced on top, as if he were afraid he might drop them onto the Cave floor. "I've sketched before. Maps, diagrams of strategic positioning, studies of animal anatomy—"

Sheesh. What kind of education had this kid  _had?_ Barbara waved a hand, and slid the box of pencils off the book. She led Damian to one of the metal benches that lined the Cave walls, and they both sat down silently. Slowly, she flipped open to a page near the back.

"Here, Dami," she said softly. "Watch."

With one of the pencils, she made a smooth, arcing line. Then another. Then another. The utensil scritched across the page and Damian's eyes tracked her hand's movements carefully. When he saw what she'd drawn, the corner of his mouth quirked slightly.

"Father's symbol." He made a short sound of approval. "So…the purpose of this book is to draw things for the sake of…drawing them?"

Barbara grinned. "Uh-huh. You could try drawing Titus, or the bats, or maybe even the trees outside the manor. Anything you want, buddy. It's  _yours."_

Damian thought about that for a moment, and his small smile widened a little.

"Sketching can be a way of release," she explained, leaning back a little. "A way to relax, you know? There's just something about taking the pictures in your head and putting them on paper. You'll see."

"Do you have one, then?"

She did. She kept it in the deep recesses of her closet, where she was sure no sibling or butler would ever stumble upon it. Mostly, they were a few rough drawings of her family, or the city-scape. But a few of them—jagged lines and dark smears of charcoal—depicted grinning black skulls and pairs of eyes underneath a wide-rimmed beach bum's hat. Other things, too. The kinds of nightmare-induced things she never wanted anyone else to see.

"I used to."

Damian nodded. Then, he took the pencil back from her, and shut the box carefully. He hugged the book carefully to his chest and said, curtly, "Thank you, Delphi. I shall fill it with only the best of sketches."

"Ha. I know you will, Dames." She reached over and carefully ruffled his hair. To her surprise, the kid didn't protest.

Both of them leaned back, pressing their backs to the cold wall of the Cave. For a few moments, they listened to the distant sounds of screeching bats, running water, and humming equipment. Then, she heard the soft sound of Damian clearing his throat.

"While I appreciate the gift, you could have given it to me upstairs." He turned his head a little, looking at her full-on. "So why come down here?"

"Hmm. Maybe I'm itching for another sword lesson?" she mused.

Damian sat bolt upright. His grin was suddenly very genuine as he leapt off the bench and streaked towards the training room. Barbara let out a small bark of laughter and followed him to the rack of sharpened katanas waiting along the edges of the wall. Typically, they used wooden sticks for sword practice—but sometimes, you needed a little  _motivation_ during training.

She caught the katana Damian tossed her way by the handle, and swept herself into a starting stance.

Damian followed suit, smirking wide.

"Are you ready?" she asked, matching his expression.

He slid the katana out of its sheath. "Tt. Always."

He lunged, and she brought her sword up sharply. The clang of steel on steel popped in her ears as she twisted away from her little brother's next attack. Damian swirled the blade over his shoulder, then swung it at her head. She blocked. Spun. Ducked. Swung. Dodged. Then, attacked.

"Your form is sloppy, Delphi," Damian said easily. "As per the usual."

"I," she grunted, lunging back to avoid a blade to the chest, "was not trained by assassins. My form's fine."

Out of nowhere, the blade swung down towards her knee. The soft part, just behind her leg. Right before it could slice through the tendons, or even touch her pant leg, Damian stopped. With an insufferable smirk, he said, "You're being lazy. I could have  _crippled_ you in fifteen different ways just now."

For anyone else, that word might have earned a sharp smack upside the head. Or maybe something more violent. But this was Damian. He didn't mean it, because he didn't  _know._ She ignored the jab in her chest and kicked up with one leg. Catching the handle of Damian's katana.

"Ha!" she crowed, as it spun away.

Damian launched into a backward handspring and swept the blade up off the ground. Then before she had time to react, he launched into another attack.

They moved together easily, now. Their movements were practiced as he walked her silently through the League of Assassin's techniques and styles. She adjusted her posture at his command, smiling a little at how much her little brother's voice changed when he was barking out orders. He almost sounded like Bruce.

"I hope the surprise was okay," she said, sliding her blade down his to meet at the hilt.

He pushed back, baring his teeth. "It was…acceptable. Who am I to complain? I received gifts, ate cake—"

He twisted the sword, and Barbara lost her advantage. Damian swung up, and she blocked, twisting her hips to spin away from his next attack.

"Yes," she agreed. "The board game from Olive. The yo-yo from Colin. And even a ukulele from Maps..."

"I'm not yet sure about the ukulele."

He twisted the sword above his head and swung the blade with both hands. The cold edge of Damian's blade pressed against her throat as he smirked.

"Yield," he snapped, grinning.

"Never." She curled her spine, landing on the palms of her hands as she flipped backwards. As her feet shot up, they caught Damian's elbow, and he hurried to readjust himself so as not to lose the sword.

"And Jason gave you that jacket?" she prompted, as soon as she popped back up to her feet. "That was nice."

"I suppose."

"What about Dick's pocket knife?" Barbara grunted, ducking to avoid his sweeping sword. "Steph got you that remote control car? And Tim gave you the Rubix cube?"

"Hnn."

The tip of her katana dipped a little as she said, "Did we get the date right? We figured you were probably born around this time of year, so—"

"I don't have one," Damian said, curtly. His face fell a little, but he shook it off, attacking with renewed enthusiasm. "Mother always said that it was useless to celebrate the passing of yet another year. It would glorify mediocrity. Everyone ages, and for the house of Al Ghul, our lives span through the centuries. So. She…hasn't ever told me the date of my birth."

Barbara gaped, and almost got her head chopped off. At the last second, she flipped her sword up and caught Damian's sweeping blade. The clang made her blink a little. She knew he would have stopped if she hadn't acted, but her adrenaline spiked anyway.

The next time she saw Talia Al Ghul, that woman was in for a #$%% of a reckoning.

But if she was being honest, the Bats didn't celebrate birthdays much, either. They used to, back when Dick and Barbara had been younger. But as more and more siblings flooded into the manor, they had less and less time for parties and cake. Birthdays were typically marked by quick fast-food runs, or maybe a hurriedly wrapped present passed to the sibling in question on patrol. Usually with a quick whispered 'happy birthday' before the thugs could open fire.

Barbara figured they'd have to change that.

"Do you ever miss it?" she asked him. Barbara spun on her heel, whirling the sword over her head before sweeping it in one fluid stroke down towards Damian's shoulder. His eyes widened a little as he raced to block the strike.

"Very good," he praised. " _That_ was the form befitting a proper assassin of the League."

"Uh. Thanks." She parried his next attack with shaking arms. "But you didn't answer my question."

A line appeared between Damian's brows as he fixed his posture and kicked up at her side with one foot. She grabbed it with her free hand and twisted, causing her little brother to flip in the air. He'd been expecting it though, and landed easily on his toes.

"Do I miss it? The League?" he asked her softly.

"Yes. Your mother, your grandfather. Nanda Parbat?" She asked gently, lunging forwards. This fight was beginning to stray from traditional technique into some Frankenstein combo of blade-wielding and hand-to-hand. "Any of it?"

He caught her fists in his, and their swords clinked together before he shoved her away, sending her staggering. Barbara recovered quickly and arched around, blocking his blade with her own, over her shoulder.

"I…perhaps sometimes," he muttered.

"Tell me."

So he did. They spun and dodged and twisted and attacked. But through it all, Damian told her about his home. The ancient citadel where he had trained with his mother and his grandfather's finest warriors. The techniques and training exercises that he'd been taught when other children his age were still learning how to walk, or talk, or read. His family had demanded excellence.  _Perfection._ Anything less would have disgraced the house of Al Ghul. And so Damian trained, and learned, and grew. Always held to a higher standard—one that demanded only the best.

Then, more slowly, he told her about the way snow looked on the mountains outside the citadel. How he would sneak out to the stables to 'bond' with his grandfather's horses and cattle. His mother's favorite wildflower. His grandfather's preferred type of herbal tea.

Barbara listened in silence. The only sounds in the cave were the drone of her brother's voice, and the clangs of steel and whispers of metal sliding on metal.

"I remember having a…'playmate' of sorts, once," he said, shrugging a little as he swung towards her head. "Older than me. She served my grandfather, but sometimes he would allow us to spar together. She was…incredible."

Damian's voice changed a little. Barbara detected a few notes of…respect? Admiration? And maybe…

She almost grinned. Did her baby brother have a  _crush?_

"An assassin?" she asked him.

"No. An experiment." He parried her next strike with ease. "Grandfather and a few of his select inner circle wanted to see if it was possible to raise up a generation of assassins that spoke the language of movement as their mother tongue."

She raised an eyebrow as she ducked. Damian's sword whistled over her head. "Wait, so…she was mute?"

"Yes. But when we fought, it was almost as if she  _was_ speaking. It's…difficult to explain."

A girl being used as the League's lab rat. A few thousand thoughts rushed through her head, but she didn't have time to think them all through just yet. She was too preoccupied with following Damian's previous advice. Keeping her center, making sure her strokes were streamlined and well-executed…fun stuff like that.

And all while he was attacking her, too.

"Did she have a name?" she asked, tentatively.

Damian swept his leg out lightning-fast, and caught her ankle. Barbara went down in a heap, on her side, grunting in pain as she landed with her elbow between her ribs. And before she had the chance to right herself, Damian's blade appeared in front of her nose. She almost went cross-eyed staring at the gleaming metal point.

"Good fight, Delphi," Damian said, nodding. He sheathed his katana, then extended a hand to help her up. "You are improving. Though your technique still requires a bit of work."

She grasped his hand, and smiled as he pulled her to her feet. "I would expect nothing less, sensei Damian."

She pressed her palms together and bowed. Damian smirked, and showed her the 'proper' way of bowing at the end of a fight (or at least the way the League did it).

First, one stood at attention. Ankles pressed together, body straight, shoulders back. Then, you inclined your head slightly, and pressed your left fist to your right hand. Only then, did you bow, bending at the base of the spine.

She copied him, and he smiled.

As he headed towards the elevator, he tossed one more statement over his shoulder.

"Her name," he stated simply, "Was Cassandra."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Right as they stepped out of the elevator, their backs hit the wall as they dove aside. Tim and Steph (in her Luka mask) sprinted past them, screaming as they thundered down the hall. Jason was chasing them with Damian's new ukulele. His fingers shredded at the strings as he strummed out 'Eye of the Tiger'.

"Sup!" he called out when he passed.

Damian's eyes were wide. Barbara just laughed.

As soon as they made it to the kitchen, Damian's friends mobbed him, dragging him over to Selina. Catwoman's smile was huge as she passed a shoebox over to Damian carefully.

Barbara moved to stand next to Dick, who was looking a lot more subdued.

"Hey," she said. "What did you and Selina talk about?"

"A couple things." His eyes never left their little brother as he said, voice low, "But according to her, there's a new vigilante running around. A…violent one."

She felt an unexpected rush of adrenaline. "Oh?"

"Yeah." Dick's expression was hard. "Montoya and her men found a pair of thugs tied up in an apartment last night. They were totally wrecked. One was missing an eye, the other was… They had to put them both in the ICU." He shrugged one shoulder. "They’re too scared to talk, but Selina told me they're going to make it. It was close, though."

Barbara said nothing. Just folded her arms over her chest, leaning against the kitchen wall.

Dick's eyes were still fastened on Damian, who was pulling the ribbon off the shoebox as his friends shouted encouragement. He wet his lips then said, carefully, "You don't think it was—?" He trailed off.

"Was…?" Barbara prompted. Then she followed his gaze, and her eyes went round.

"No!" she hissed. "There's no way, Dick. He was with you all last night!"

He nodded, still focused on his little brother. Damian was still struggling with the ribbon. (Selina was notoriously good with knots.) "That's what I thought. But then, who? Is it the Owls? Were you with Talon the  _whole_ night, or…?"

"We'll figure it out," Barbara assured him. She nibbled at the inside of her cheek, and tried for a quick deflection. "I swear to  _crap_ , if she got the kid a cat…"

Damian lifted the top of the box off, and his entire demeanor softened, face going slack. Maps let out a squeal, and Olive and Colin both cooed. Slowly, Damian's careful hands lifted out a small, fuzzy black and white kitten. Its paws splayed out, and it opened its little pink mouth to let out a tiny mewl.

" _Awww!"_ Every girl in the room (and Colin) cried. Barbara was not ashamed to admit that she was one of them. The kitten was just so… _teeny._

Selina was smirking. "Isis had her babies last week. I thought you'd make a good caretaker for this handsome little boy, Damian."

Damian's eyes were wide as he cradled the small baby in his palms. The kitten's little white needle teeth tested the tip of his thumb, but the kid didn't even flinch. Barbara hadn't seen him like this with any living thing since she'd taken him down to the animal shelter last year to adopt Titus.

The Great Dane in question shuffled over, head low, and sniffed at the tiny cat. He snorted, and looked up at his owner for some kind of answer or opinion.

"What're you gonna call him?" Maps cooed. "Aw! Look at his leetle  _earsies!_ "

"It looks like he's wearing a tuxedo," Olive observed. And she was right; the black and white patterns on the kitten's chest reminded Barbara of a suit jacket over a white shirt. There was even a tiny black spot right where a bowtie would be.

The kitten bit down harder on his thumb. This time, Damian did wince a little bit.

"Hn. He  _does_ have potential," he decided, smiling just a little. "I think I'll call him Alfred."

Alfred Pennyworth let out a shocked (and vaguely pleased/flattered) sound. "I say! We'd best get Master Alfred a saucer of milk then, shouldn't we?"

Barbara pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a snort of laughter. Dick sighed heavily. Then, "Wait," he said quickly. "Aren't you allergic to cats?"

"Pfft. No. I always just said that so we  _wouldn't_ have to get a cat." Barbara smirked, but that faded quickly as she had a sudden realization. "But…Jay is."

As if on cue, the 'Eye of the Tiger' reached its last few chords as the three middle Batkids burst into the room. All eyes whirled on the newcomers. Tim leapt up and over the counter, narrowly missing the cake, and Steph slid across the tiles to join him. Jason was panting a little as he set the instrument down on the countertop with a thud.

"You guys…" he gasped. " _Suck."_

"I win!" Tim crowed, sticking his head up over the edge of the island. He must have found the marks on his face, because the glasses had been scrubbed away. "You owe me five bucks, Ste—Luka!"

Steph scowled and mumbled something under her breath as she rifled in her pocket. Her Vlativan accent was forced as she said, "You're a regular ray of sunshine vhen you actually get some sleep, you know zat Tim?"

Jason leaned against the counter for support, letting out one last huff of air. "Think I liked him better when he was a zombie.”

Tim waggled his fingers. "Hand it over, and admit your crushing defeat!"

Jason growled. Then dug a hand into his pocket.

Barbara shot Dick a sidelong glance. He returned the look as he said, "Any idea—?"

"You know? I stopped questioning their games a  _looong_ time ago, Grayson."

He shrugged, taking that answer in stride. His eyes darted up towards the clock on the wall, and they widened by a fraction.

"Welp, guys!" he announced to the room. "Looks like it's time for school! Everybody go get your bags, and Alfred'll drive. Is that still alright with you, Alf?"

The old butler smirked, hands clasped behind his back. "Quite, Master Dick. But I must remind you that today is my 'day off'. If needed, you may reach me by phone. Otherwise, I trust that you all will be able to manage without my guiding hand?"

"We'll be fine." Dick shot Alfred a thumbs-up. "Head out, everybody!"

They all hurried towards the other room, and Damian gently placed his new kitten in the care of Selina Kyle (with the promise that she would make sure it got that milk saucer). Barbara counted each kid as they hurried to grab their stuff for the day. Alfred and Selina both followed them out, leaving Barbara, Dick and Jason standing in the kitchen.

"So what do  _we_ do all day?" she queried, edging closer to her boyfriend.

A slow grin curled up his face. He hooked an arm around her waist. "Well, if you're looking for suggestions…"

She hummed and leaned in for a kiss. "If you insist."

"Yuck. Count me out of that," Jason groaned, rolling his eyes. He pulled a set of keys out of his jacket pocket. "Think I'm gonna head over to Roy's. We've got some stuff to catch up on."

"You do that, Little Wing," Dick said, running his fingers through Barbara's hair. "But would you mind picking the kids up from school? Since Alfred's gonna be out of town?"

Their younger brother snorted. "Sure thing, Golden Boy. But I'm tellin' ya. I'll be there at three-thirty  _sharp._ If they're not waiting for me, that's their problem."

"Great. We'll just—"

All three of them hit the ground as a brilliant flash lit up the room. Gold seared their retinas, and they could all hear a sudden  _thwump._ The sound of at least two bodies falling against a tile floor. That was followed by a pair of groans.

Barbara rubbed at her eyes, then blinked hard as she glanced around the room.

"What was…?"

She trailed off as she saw the familiar golden robot hovering over the kitchen sink. Its little red light blinked angrily.

" _Oh, joy of all joys!"_ it quipped.  _"I've returned to the cave of idiots!"_

"You," Barbara snarled. She made a mad dash for one of the drawers, slid it open, and pulled out Alfred's best cast-iron meat tenderizer. "Prepare to die, you glorified little tin can!"

Skeets beeped in alarm, and whizzed past her head. Headed for the door. And the kids.

The  _civilian_ kids.

"Dick!" she cried.

He jumped, then reached out quickly. His hands snagged the robot out of the air, and Skeets struggled against the Batman's firm grip.

" _Unhand me, you barbarian! Or I'll have no choice but to—!"_

It only took a few steps for Dick to make it to the trash can. He stepped on the little lever, flipping open the lid, then slam-dunked Skeets right into the heap of discarded paper plates and chocolate crumbs.

" _Wait! You can't just—"_ The robot demanded. But the lid slammed down before he could finish his sentence.

"Well," Dick said, holding down the lid with one hand for good measure. "That's just  _great._ You wanna call Booster, or should I?"

Barbara glowered, crossing her arms. "Who said anything about calling? We needed a new toaster anyway."

He smirked, and twirled a finger in the air. "I like what you're thinking. Let's—"

He cut off as a black hand crept up over the edge of the counter. Followed by an arm. Then a shoulder.

Barbara, Dick, and Jason all slid into an instant ready-stance. Barbara brandished her meat tenderizer. They exchanged a glance, then a nod.

 _You go left,_ she silently told Dick.  _I'll take the right._

She left it up to Jason to improvise.

Both of them took one step forward. Then stopped, as soon as they heard a pained voice.

"Aw,  _slag_ it! What the actual #$%% just happened?"

A head popped up next. Wavy black hair, square jaw, and a set of slanted blue-green eyes that reminded Barbara a  _lot_ of Selina's. The stranger's gaze fastened on the older Batkids, and the boy let out a sound that was half-gasp and half-squeak.

"Uh…D?" he croaked. "We, um, have a situation…"

Another head poked up from behind the counter. This man had an olive complexion and narrowed green eyes. He had a few pale scars running over his forehead and chin. When he saw them, his shoulders stiffened, and his hand whipped up to the side of his face. There was a small mechanical whir as little hexagonal panels of black material flipped from the man's hairline and over his eyes and the bridge of his nose. White eyes narrowed at them as he nudged his partner.

"Masks on," he barked. " _Now."_

"Uh…" the boy was gaping at them. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

His hand tapped his chest, and similar material spread up over his entire head, ending in a set of pointed ears. Bat ears.

Then slowly, both of the strangers got to their feet. The boy was a few inches taller than Barbara, and very well built. Like a high-school linebacker. The man was bigger.  _Way_ bigger. He towered over Dick, and even Jason, and looked like he spent his free time benching SUV's or downing protein shakes by the gallon. And he seemed…vaguely familiar.

But then her eyes landed on their getup. The taller guy was in black Kevlar—no, wait, that wasn't right. It had a different texture. Another material entirely? It reminded her vaguely of Dick's earlier Nightwing costume. Only  _very much_ modified, as if from a different time period altogether. And sure enough, right smack in the center of his chest was a green Nightwing-esque bird symbol.

The boy was decked out in similar Kevlar-like material. Silvery canisters lined his waistband, almost like some sort of minimalist utility belt. His mask blended seamlessly into the rest of the suit, and Barbara noticed that the fabric, or synthetic material (or whatever the #$%% it was) molded perfectly with his face, leaving every shocked facial expression on full display.

And in the center of his chest, there was a glowing red bat-symbol.

The meat tenderizer clanged against the floor. So did Dick's jaw.

"Oh," Barbara muttered. " _Come on!"_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Tim's schedule was vastly different from his  _siblings'_  (thank every deity known to man). Most of his classes were AP level or higher. The teachers often had to make certain adjustments to their curriculum just for Tim. Not that it was the school's fault. He'd learned how to assemble and defuse a nuclear bomb when his fellow classmates were still learning the Pythagorean Theorem. Tim had just had a…different education from everyone else at this school. (Granted, so had all of his siblings, but they'd all tried to tone their academic performances down a little. But Tim…he had plans for after he graduated.)

But there was one class.  _One $% &*!&# class _that everyone in the entire school had to take every year until they were mercifully handed a diploma. The kind of class that every rich parent or guardian fully supported. The kind that had every kid groaning and begging for the sweet release of death.

Financial Literacy.

The classroom was large enough to hold about thirty-five to forty students, and comprised of freshmen, sophomores, juniors and seniors. And—of &%^$*!# course—Tim shared that class with Damian and his little gremlin friends.

He sat back against the cool plastic back of his chair and heaved a sigh. His phone slid out of his pocket and into his waiting hand. All around the classroom, everyone was looking half up and half down at their laps. Pretending to listen to Mrs. Barrow as she droned on and on about budget plans and gross vs. net incomes. Ignoring the sign posted above the whiteboard that said in bold red letters: NO PHONES WHILE I'M TALKING! (But honestly. Did anyone ever take the 'no-phones' rule seriously?)

Tim could hear Ben and Rafe snickering about something at the back of the room. But he was a little too busy texting Tam to care.

 **TIM –** are we still on for tonight?

He waited for a few minutes before a bubbled reply showed up on his screen. Thankfully, he had his phone on silent.

 **TAMMY –** I thought so. U gonna show up this time?

 **TIM –** I said I was sorry

 **TIM –** babe

 **TAMMY –** Sry. But I sat at that table for 3 hrs. The staff kept asking me if I was ok. It was embarrassing.

 **TIM –** what if I said I have a good reason for missing?

 **TAMMY –** I swear, Timothy Drake. U tell me one more lame-#$$ excuse…*sigh*

 **TIM –** I was out of town for a few days. Must have lost track of the time

He already hit SEND before really thinking that through, and he winced.  _Lost track of the time?_ He was being literal, but there was no way Tam could pick up on that! What was he thinking?

A bubble popped up on his screen below his last message. Three little shimmering dots. He felt a knot of anxiety curl up in the pit of his stomach.

Then, the little blue bubble popped up.

 **TAMMY –** Maybe use that billionaire $ to buy urself a &^%%#&$ watch.

 **TIM –** that's not what I meant! Pls let me explain!

A few more beats. He was just about to type out that lengthy (and admittedly doctored) explanation when she replied.

 **TAMMY –** Or better yet, try using Sam Vanaver's watch?

A cold chill ran up the length of Tim's spine. His stomach lurched.  _No. No, no no!_

 **TAMMY –** She sent me a pic.

An image bubble appeared underneath Tam's message. It was dark, but Tim could still make out the shape of his naked torso as he lay unconscious on his bed. Sam was laid out next to him, taking the selfie. She was also topless, to his horror. But thankfully, she held the edge of the blanket in a bundle over her chest. A gray ribbon was stretched across the picture, and Tim could instantly tell it had been sent by Crackchat. It read:  **Thx 4 the loaner, sweetie! He was gr8t. ;) xoxoxoxo**

Tim glanced up at the whiteboard. Mrs. Barrow was still droning, and still explaining how to calculate net worth out of gross income. His eyes swept over to the other side of the room, and he caught sight of Samantha Vanaver. Her blonde hair was twisted into an elegant bun at the nape of her neck, and she was smirking as she texted under her desk.

 _Stupid, Drake,_ he chided himself,  _You % &$#%^$ idiot!_

He swallowed hard, and looked back down at his phone, suddenly  _very_ afraid of what he might see.

 **TAMMY –** Got any more excuses? Pretty sure I've heard them all by now.

 **TIM –** Tammy, I swear it's not what it looks like

 **TIM –** I *can* explain. Meet me for drinks tonight?

 **TIM –** like we planned?

She didn't text him back for an eternity. Then, finally, the bouncing dots showed back up.

 **TAMMY –** Seriously? Don't hold your breath.

She was using full words now.  _& ^$$^# _she was using full words… With Tamara Fox, that was  _never_ a good sign!

 **TIM –** Tammy I will do *anything* to make this up to you!

 **TIM –** name it. Anything.

 **TAMMY –** …

 **TAMMY –** ok.

 **TIM –** really?

 **TAMMY –**  Of course, baby. Just tell me one thing.

Dots. Tim really hated those &^$% dots… He gripped the phone so tight that the screen protector made a small popping sound.

 **TAMMY –** Did you enjoy yourself?

 **TAMMY –** Was she worth it?

He clenched his jaw hard.

 **TIM –** Tammy please! I'm sorry!

 **TAMMY –** Go %^&$ yourself, Drake. Or maybe Sam? I don't care.

 **TAMMY –** And just in case it's not clear? We're done.

Tim felt his jaw slowly go slack. His eyes stung, and he swallowed hard, blinking. He waited for two minutes, then five, then ten… But Tam didn't say anything else. He shut off his phone, and sank into his chair.

Here he was again.

Years ago, he'd had something like this happen with Cassie and Steph. He thought he could safely date Steph, and still stay close to Cassie without either girl being the wiser. Maybe he'd been thinking a little too much like Bruce, because his motivations with Cassie hadn't been at all innocent; he'd wanted intel on the Amazonian girl. He had his suspicions that she wasn't everything she seemed, and figured that it was best to keep her close. (He'd been right, of course. But it was still a $#*^^% thing to do.)

Needless to say, Steph found out pretty quickly. (Despite the ditzy front she often put on, she could actually be very, very perceptive.) She told Cassie, and Tim narrowly avoided sudden-death-by-blondes.

He rested his forehead on one fist. Why was he such an idiot? Had he really thought he could just sleep with Sam Vanaver for intel on the Court? Just like that? He'd actually justified it! It wasn't cheating if it was just once, and for the greater good, right?

They chatted at the gala—or at least, outside after the GCPD had cleared the area, and he'd changed back into his suit and tie. She'd bragged about her father. How he had some sort of all-powerful pull in Gotham. At first, he chalked it up to typical socialite arrogance. He'd mingled enough with Gotham's upper class to recognize the tone.

But then, she'd talked about secrets. And how her father and his friends held the entire city in the palms of their hands.

" _Oh yeah?"_ he'd asked, smiling indulgently.  _"Like some kind of club or something?"_

" _You could say that,"_ she'd replied breezily, picking at the low neckline of her gown.

" _Hmm. Maybe you could tell me more?"_

" _Sure thing. But I don't share secrets unless I get some back."_

" _Heh."_ He'd pasted on a smile he'd seen Bruce put on for a million other women.  _"I'll see what I can do."_

And before he even knew what happened, they were…well… Needless to say, floundering to explain the whole thing to Barbara the morning after was…awkward.

His phone's screen lit up, and Tim glanced down. Another message from Tam? Could this actually get any worse?

He typed in his passcode. An airdrop notification glared up at him. From Raphael Clark.

Tim hesitated, and glanced around the room. It seemed like everyone had their phones out, and he could see people's shoulders shaking. Small bouts of giggles and laughter echoed around the room. Not loud enough to make Mrs. Barrow turn around, but loud enough that it seemed to pound in Tim's ears.

So, he pressed the notification bubble with his thumb, and opened it up.

A GIF of Tim in his underwear filled his screen. Being shoved into a locker. Over and over on a constant, agonizing loop. Rafe and Ben must have used some sort of app, because comically large google-y eyes had been pasted over his real ones, making the whole thing even more humiliating.

He bit his tongue, and turned off his phone.

_Fantastic._

As more and more people accepted the airdrop, the giggling got louder. People started to nudge each other and glance back at Tim. He glowered back, and crossed his arms over his chest. Only ten more minutes of the last period of the day. He could do this. He could  _do_ this…

Mrs. Barrow finally turned around and snapped, "Yes? Is there something  _more_  important than your future financial security, ladies and gentlemen? Please! Enlighten me!"

One of the girls up front snickered and turned her screen so that the teacher could get a full view. Mrs. Barrow's eyes flew open wide, and she quickly averted her eyes.

"Erm, well, thank you, Cady." She rapped the tip of her dry erase marker on her desk and glanced over the class. "Would anyone like to take responsibility for this offensive video? Or should I keep you all here after class?"

There were groans, but no one offered up the names of the perpetrators. Ben and Rafe had a reputation, after all. Everyone was willing to get in on their latest joke, but nobody wanted to end up on their bad side.

Tim spotted Damian a few seats to the side of him. He was glancing over at his friends in confusion. The one with all the buttons and stickers on her uniform bit her lip and leaned over to show him her phone. The others pressed their heads in, and they all exchanged a few muttered words.

Something like rage flared on his younger brother's face when he saw the GIF.

Slowly, Damian pushed out his chair.

Tim sat up a little straighter.

_Don't do anything stupid, demon-spawn._

Damian marched back to the pair of desks at the back of the room. Everyone watched him with wide eyes as he went, and Mrs. Barrow made a few lame attempts to tell the kid to get back to his seat. But no one paid her any attention as Damian stood over Ben Vanaver and Rafe Clark with a murderous glare.

It was the Bat-Glare. Tim had a feeling that this was about to get violent. He started to get out of his seat, but then—

"You must think you're funny," Damian said casually. He shrugged his shoulders a little, but his expression was ice cold. "I can understand the confusion."

Rafe raised his eyebrows. "Sorry, little guy. Did I hurt your feewings?"

"Yeah," Ben added, leaning forward a little on his desk. "Are you lost, little guy? Do you need help finding the other kindergarteners?"

He and Ben laughed, and bumped fists. Damian continued, unfazed.

"See, you're confusing humor with raw strength."

"Uh…" Ben snorted, eyes narrowed. He shot Rafe a  _'can you believe this kid?'_ glance.

"The fact that you think you could easily overpower anyone in this room does  _not_ make you funny." Damian clasped his hands behind his back. "Actually, it makes you  _pathetic."_

Anger flickered on the boys' faces, but Rafe laughed, trying to play it off.

"Uh-oh! Did somebody take your juice box?" he stuck his lip out, pouting.

Damian's expression went liquid-nitrogen cold. He managed a humorless smile, ignoring the dozens of eyes on him…and then laughed. Long and cruel. His head tipped back, and his shoulders shook.

It was probably the most terrifying thing Tim had ever seen.

The boys' smiles dropped off their faces, and they shot each other a scowl. If there was one thing that a rich billionaire brat hated more than anything else, it was being laughed at.

Damian continued to chuckle, then tipped his chin back down as he glanced down at the bullies. His expression was all Al-Ghul. A 'you are a spineless insect beneath my shoe' sort of sneer, and it sent a shiver across the back of Tim's neck.

"I'll just ask you once," he said, laughter finally subsiding. "to delete that image. Or else."

Ben crossed his arms, smirking. "Or else, huh? Ooh, I'm so scared!"

 _You will be, Vanaver,_ Tim thought, gripping the back of his chair with white knuckles. He wasn't sure whether or not to speak up, or jump out of his seat, or what. He knew he should stop Damian before he did something they'd all regret, but…a small part of him wanted to see how this would play out. It was kind of like watching a train wreck. He was horrified, but he couldn't look away.

"Or else what, shortie? Are you gonna go tell on us?" Rafe pouted again.

No one had time to react. Damian's hand shot out. His fingers gripped the back of Rafe's head and slammed it down hard on the desk. The whack made everyone gasp, and there was even a chorus of a few ' _ooohhhh'_ s floating around the room.

Damian held Rafe's head down on the desk as Ben stared on in shock. He leaned down over the older boy and said, deathly quiet, "Delete it.  _Now."_

Rafe's nose was bleeding, and he let out a pained bleat. Mrs. Barrow was shouting now, and wobbling over on her high heels. A few of the students stuck out their legs, blocking her. And when she tried to climb over, she tripped over Marshal Gilder's ankle and went sprawling across the tile floor.

The teacher was down. Kids stood up all over the room, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of their fallen teacher, then moved to form a ring around Damian and the two bullies. Tim got up too, half expecting everyone to start chanting, ' _Fight! Fight! Fight!'_

But everyone was silent as they watched. Ben's chair shot out as he jumped up.

"Listen, kid," he snarled. "I don't care if you  _are_ a shrimp. You're dead."

Damian was unamused. "Please. Go ahead and try. It'll be  _adorable."_

Ben swung his fist at Damian's head, but the kid ducked out of the way. Tim almost expected him to go full judo on the guy. But instead, he opted for a swift kick to the groin. Ben let out an inhuman squeal and fell to his knees. At just the right height for Damian's perfectly executed left hook.

Everyone let out groans of approval as Ben toppled to the ground. Just in time for Rafe to rocket to his feet—nose bloodied and steaming mad. Mrs. Barrow was starting to get up, shouting as she called for order, and Tim felt a bead of sweat run down the side of his face.

Unless he did something, the entire class was about to see Damian—a twelve-year-old, five foot  _nothing_ kid—take down two of the most feared bullies in the whole school. With his fists. Like friggin' Bruce Lee.

He'd have to get in on this thing. He almost sighed as he took a step forward.

"Wait!"

All eyes whirled on the girl getting up on the other side of the room. Her chair squeaked on the tile, and she glared at the crowd of spectators. Tim recognized her instantly as the girl he'd seen around school a handful of times over the years. She was in a few of the plays, and volunteered a little with student government and the Hope Squad.

"Damian Wayne!" she said, putting her hands up in a placating gesture. "Go and sit back down, okay? You made your point. More violence isn't gonna solve anything. So let's just—"

"Hey," Rafe spat. He wiped at the smear of blood on his lips with the back of his hand, scowling. "You. Hipster-goth d**e. Keep your hippie speech to yourself."

The girl's eyebrows shot up above the rims of her glasses, and Tim could see the whites of her eyes all around her green irises. "What did you just call—? Okay, Raphael. You listen, and you listen  _good."_ She marched towards the ring of students, one finger raised. The kids parted for her like the Red Sea as she stormed into the circle. "Don't pretend like you don't know my %^&$*%& name, like I haven't been tutoring your sorry #$$ since junior  _%^ &$*%& high. _And secondly? You do  _not_ hear me going around and calling you a dumb#$$ meat-headed jock just because you wear that &*%$ football jersey every &*%$ day, so where the #$%% do you get off, using that slur like you know what the #$%% you're talking about? Suck my &^#% you %*&!^%#?*$&%—"

Rafe's hand cracked across her cheek, and everyone seemed to hold their breath. The girl's beanie flew off her head and landed on the floor, revealing her choppy red hair. She sucked in an inhale through her nose, scooped her hat off the tiles, then snarled,

"Oh, you sonuva &*^$%."

Of course, that was when Ben peeled himself off the ground and glared daggers at the girl and Damian. Two on two. Which wasn't good, considering the players.

Oh-kay. Time for Tim to get involved.

"Hey," he snapped, shoving through his classmates. He stepped into the ring to be at his little brother's side. "If you've got a problem, it's with  _me._ Leave them out of it."

Rafe cracked his knuckles and sneered. Ben's jaw was clenched so hard that a vein was popping out on the side of his forehead.

"Yeah, no," Rafe shot back. "Short-stack made this personal, and ginger-chick's getting on my nerves. So consider yourself lucky we're not worried about  _you_ today, Tiny. Step aside or get ready to hurt."

Tim balled his fists and set his jaw. "Figure I'll stick around. Just to make this fair."

"Fair?" Ben demanded.

"Yeah." Tim shrugged. "I mean, two big 'dumb#$$, meat-headed jocks' against a little kid and a girl? In what world is that a fair fight?"

Damian and the girl shot him twin death-glares. He could practically hear his little brother's voice in his head,  _I could cripple these two imbeciles from here, then mop the floor with your intestines, so don't test me, Drake._

But Tim cleared his throat and continued. "So, if we toss a wimpy nerd like me into the mix, the two of you might  _actually_ stand a chance."

The girl drew back a little. Then, a hesitant smile lit up her face.

"You're  _dead,_ Tiny," Rafe spat.

"Yeah. You keep saying that. But let's see if you can actually follow through."

All five of them lunged forwards.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"So. Let me just get this straight." Barbara held up her hands and pointed at the gargantuan man first. "You're from the future. Your name is  _Nightshade._ You were out on patrol when you ran into a weird little robot, and wound up  _here."_

The man, Nightshade, nodded. He sipped from the mug of cocoa they'd given him thoughtfully. His whole posture was straight and proper. Almost annoyingly so. They'd tucked both time travelers into chairs at the kitchen table for an interrogation. Only the boy seemed put off. The Nightshade guy was totally fine.

"And you," she continued, pointing over to the boy. " _You're_ the future-Batman. Same story as Lampshade over there—"

"Nightshade," the man corrected. He blew the steam off the rim of his cup.

" _What_ ever. You came back here, too. And now you're both trying to get back to your own time. A year which—"

"We can't divulge," Nightshade interrupted.

"Right. That." Barbara sighed, and turned to her wide-eyed partner. "That's everything, yeah? In a nutshell?"

Dick was staring at the pair of newcomers with abject horror. Arms resting against the top of the kitchen table—now cleared of all wrapping paper and birthday presents—to keep himself from falling over. Jason had taken off hours ago, after declaring that the whole situation was 'way too freaky' for his tastes. Barbara was beginning to understand what the younger versions of themselves must have thought, having people from the future pop in on their otherwise  _completely normal_ day.

She shuddered. "Okay. We can get you home. We've got the robot right here, and—"

Dick stomped down on the garbage can's foot, and the lid flipped open again. They both peered inside the trashcan. To their horror, there was no sign of the annoying gold time-travel robot.

Skeets was gone.

Barbara snarled. "Oh, that's just f—"

She paused when they all heard the front door open and slam shut. The sound of footsteps and chatter hit their ears next, and Barbara turned to Dick. She searched his face for some kind of plan, but the Batman was staring at the kitchen door in shock.

Stephanie and Jason both stared back at them. Steph's backpack hit the floor with a smack.

"Uhhh." She squinted at the newcomers, then glanced up at her older siblings. "Cosplayers? What are cosplayers doing in our house?"

Future-Batman waved. His smile was hesitant as he said, "Actually, we're from the future, and—ow! Hey, man!"

Nightshade must have stomped on his partners foot, and he shot the boy a scowl. "Can it, McGinnis. We can't—"

Both of their eyes flew open wide, and a smug grin curled up the boy's face. "Ohhhh. Look who's screwing with the timeline  _now?"_

"That's…that's… _different,"_ Nightshade spluttered. "They don't meet  _you_ until…they just…they won't recognize  _your_ name—"

"Aha!" Barbara snapped her fingers. Both newcomers jumped a little, and she smirked. "But we  _would_ recognize your name, Nightshadow?"

"Night.  _Shade._ And I'm not at liberty to elaborate on that particular detail."

Stephanie snorted. "Holy crap, he sounds like an old dictionary."

Future-Batman chuckled. "Yeah, he gets all 'proper' when he's mad. It's hilarious."

The man scowled, face pinching slightly, and Barbara's eyes widened a little. She could feel her jaw drop slightly. Because she… _did…_ recognize this man, now.

Holy freaking  _$#*^._

They had to get these two back to their own time before anything else happened. With another glance at Dick, she said, "Tell you what. I'm gonna go call Booster Gold right now, okay?"

She turned to leave the room, then hesitated, fingers curled against the door frame. "Listen. Nightshade."

He perked up slightly.

"The kid won't jeopardize the timeline, okay? There's a way of…clearing the slate, when it comes to time travel," Barbara continued. "So. Why don't you let him go hang out with Stephanie and Jason, here, and you and I can go have a talk. Is that alright?"

"Ooh!" Stephanie instantly brightened. "Two words for you, pal.  _Memes_  and  _vines_! Those'll teach you everything you need to know about our time!"

Jason looked like he was trying to hold back a laugh. "Yep. Totally. They're, like, the most accurate way to learn all about us. Should be fun."

The boy glanced up at Nightshade pleadingly. The masked man glared down at the table, then glanced at the ceiling, like he was calculating something in his mind. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh and said, slowly, "I suppose that would be alright."

"And Dick," Barbara said, "Come with us. I'm gonna need some help ripping our buddy Booster a new one."

He nodded. There was still a confused line between his brows. He wet his lips. "Uh. Okay. But…where're Tim and Damian? I thought you were going to pick up everybody, Jay?"

At the mention of the two missing brothers, both time travelers straightened. Future-Batman shot a meaningful look at his partner. "Hey. That's—"

"Can. It."

Jason shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Look. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. If these guys keep me waiting forever outside that &*%%*^$ school, then I'm leaving with whoever bothers to come out." He waved a hand at Steph, who smirked. "Blondie here was the only one who showed up. We waited for the other two, then we made like a tree and got out of there."

"I don't think you got that one right," Steph muttered. "It's actually—"

"Yeah. I know. Dangit." Jason's eyelids drooped. "Sounded better in my head…"

" _Any_ way," Barbara interjected. "It'll be fine. They'll either walk home, or call Alfred. For now, though—" She gestured for Dick and Nightshade to follow her out of the kitchen. "Let's go and have that talk."

"Awesome!" Steph said brightly. "Now. You. Batman guy. What's your real name? Cause I'm  _not_ calling you Batman.”

"Same here," Jason concurred with a roll of his eyes.

The boy glanced at his partner with one raised eyebrow, as if asking permission. Nightshade heaved a deep sigh and slid to his feet. The wooden legs of the chair scraped across the floor, as he said, "Fine. Do whatever you want, McGinnis."

The boy beamed, and tapped his symbol again. The mask unfurled from his face, letting the black waves of his hair fall back over his forehead. He shot to his feet and stuck a hand out to Steph and Jason.

"Name's Terry McGinnis," he said, grinning. "I'm guessing Stephanie Brown and Jason Todd?" He cocked his head, squinting. "Man, dude. You look so weird with both eyes—"

Jason started. "Wait,  _what?"_

Nightshade and Dick followed Barbara down to the Cave. Barbara almost turned, ready to give the newcomer instructions. But the man swept easily through the halls, all the way to the grandfather clock, like he'd walked through this house a billion times. He even turned the hands on the clock face for them, smirking slightly as they gaped.

As soon as they reached the safety of the Cave, Barbara strode towards the Batcomputer. She snagged her mask off of the desktop and slid it up onto her face, and Dick stayed with Nightshade at the edge of the Cave. Where they wouldn't be seen. A few simple commands later, and a live conference call appeared on the screen. Booster Gold glanced down at her, eyes wide.

"Uh…hello, Batwoman!" He straightened, and pasted on a wide, debonair smile. "How may I be of assistance this fine day?"

Barbara's eyes narrowed. "Where's Skeets."

"I…have him with me, of course! And the cuff you so rudely forgot to return, thank you very much! Though Skeets  _has_  been telling me some very interesting things about the two of you. Apparently, you 'bullied' him?" Booster pouted. "How could you do that? Skeets is such a sensitive soul! He doesn't deserve to be mistreated!"

Barbara almost snorted. Sensitive soul, her  _#$$._

"There's been another…mishap," she snapped. "We've got two stranded travelers from the future, and we need to get them back home.  _Now."_

Gold recoiled a little at her tone, but the smile returned full force. "Well, you see, I'd  _love_ to help you! Really, I would! But, see, the League has me off-world right now, so—"

"Then zeta  _back."_ Her hands curled into fists.

"No can do, Bat-lady! Zeta tubes are on the fritz, so we're out here for the next few weeks or so. Had to have good ol' GL fly us here manually. Ooh! Did I mention I finally got into the League?"

"Booster!" Barbara could hear Hawkman's voice off-screen. "You're not in the League! We're just short— _gah!"_

An explosion rocked the screen, and Booster held up a hand to shade his eyes from the bright source.

"Get your sorry #$$ over here, Gold!" Hal Jordan's disembodied voice shrieked.

Booster Gold shrugged a little. "That," he said, "Would be my cue to hang up. But good luck, Bat-lady! I'm sure your time-visitors are in good hands until I get back!"

"Wait!" Barbara shouted. "Gold—!"

"'Til then!"

The screen went black, and Barbara cursed, banging a fist down on the desk. "That son of a &*^$#."

Dick and Barbara both jumped when Nightshade let out a low chuckle. His shoulders shook as he crossed his arms over his wide chest and smirked. "Ah. It's good to know that you don't change much through the years, Barbara."

Dick smirked. "So, she'll always be this cranky?"

Barbara managed a smile, and jabbed a finger in her boyfriend's direction. "That's it, Hunk Wonder. You're sleeping on the couch."

"Hey!" Dick laughed, then sobered up just as quickly, turning to their guest. "But…what's that supposed to mean? You're—"

In her pocket, Barbara's cell-phone beeped. So did Dick's. They whipped them out and checked the screen.

Incoming call from: **GOTHAM ACADEMY**

"Oh  _no,"_ Barbara sighed. "D'you mind if I take this?"

Nightshade was smiling wryly. "Not at all."

Dick blanched. "Please."

She pressed the phone to her ear, and forced a sugary sweet tone as she said, "Headmaster Hammer? Yes. This is she."

A pause. She listened to the frantic man on the other line, and felt her eyebrows press closer and closer together.

"I…yes. I understand, but—sir, that just doesn't sound like him at all!...Wait.  _Both_ of them?...They did  _what?"_ Barbara noticed Dick's whole demeanor go slack, as if he wanted to melt into the floor. "With…you want us to…I, er, understand, sir…yes. We'll be there. Thank you. Um. Same to you."

The phone beeped and she set it down on the desktop with a heavy sigh.

"What?" Dick asked, like he  _really_ didn't want to hear the answer.

Barbara bit her lip and leaned against the computer's chair. "That," she said slowly, "Was Hammerhead. He wants us to come in for a 'special emergency parent meeting' with the Clarks and the Vanavers.  _Apparently,_ our two little angels got into a brawl with those bullies that picked on Timmy a few weeks ago. And now Sebastian Clark and Abraham Vanaver are throwing words like 'serving' around. In regards to lawsuits." She shrugged her shoulders with an ironic smile. "That about sum it up?"

Dick facepalmed. "Joy."

Nightshade cleared his throat. "I understand if the two of you need to leave for a while. I'll be fine down here." He smiled wryly. "Besides. You'll definitely want to have a chat with Vanaver. Trust me."

The two older Bats exchanged a glance.

"Alright," Barbara said breezily. "Just try not to screw with our systems, alright,  _Damian?"_

It took Dick a second to process that. Then he gasped.

"Wait,  _what!?"_

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Thank you all for coming this evening. I hope that we can have a constructive conversation."

Tim had to say that on a list of awkward situations…well, Dick and Babs at a parent conference was probably pretty high up there. They, just like Ben and Rafe's parents, were perched on tiny plastic classroom chairs that were a little too small for them. (They'd had to bring them over from the junior high portion of the school) Heck, seeing Dick try to balance his muscular form on a seat meant for a seventh grader was…well…Tim had to force a straight face, to say the least.

The Vanavers and the Clarks were different from what Tim had expected. They looked like old money, sure (emphasis on  _old_ ), but they had an air about them that went beyond the usual pomp and circumstance of Gotham High Society. Mrs. Clark and Mrs. Vanaver looked like two barbie dolls out of the pages of a 1950's magazine—the kind that would eat you for breakfast, then pause to powder their noses. Their husbands were all Italian suits and Rolex watches, but their eyes…

There was something a little 'off' about their eyes.

And Dick and Babs, needless to say, were royally ticked off. Dick kept shooting him tired, ' _what the #$%% were you thinking?'_ glances, and Barbara kept glaring at the other parents like she was trying to set them on fire with her eyes. Fortunately (depending on who you asked), she lacked the meta abilities to do so, and settled for giving the socialites the patented Bat-Glare.

Damian and Carrie were seated on either side of him. They'd been in Hammer's office for hours now (giving him plenty of time to finally swap names with the girl he'd seen around the school since sophomore year). In the meantime, they'd been lectured, shouted at, and detained while the administration did their best to contact parents and guardians, and fill out the necessary paperwork. And, of course, ship Ben and Rafe off to the emergency room.

Apparently, Damian hadn't really completely learned how to 'hold back' yet. So…it could have been worse. Only a few fractures and breaks. And a minor concussion. And a few missing teeth. And—

"We're glad we could make it," Dick said with a strained smile. Somehow, Tim didn't believe him.

"Yes," Sebastian Clark sniffed. "A true shame, though, that Bruce couldn't be here."

Barbara swallowed, still scowling. "He's still abroad, sadly, so I suppose we'll have to do."

Mrs. Vanaver squinted in her direction, so that Tim could see just how much glittering blue eyeshadow the woman had caked onto her eyelids. It, along with the makeup around her eyes, cracked a little from the movement. "What," she demanded with a sniff, "Are  _you_ even doing here? You're just Grayson's plaything—his kept woman, his  _concubine._  You have absolutely no authority over these two little delinquents, whatsoever!"

Babs reared back. " _Excuse_ me?"

Tim and Damian both shrunk at her tone. He could practically see the flash of rage in Barbara's eyes as her lips curled into a snarl. Dick reached out and placed a hand on her knee, shaking his head slightly. She calmed a little, but Tim could tell his sister wasn't completely mollified.

"Let's not use that kind of language here, if you please, Elizabeth," Hammer sighed, twining his fingers together on top of his desk. "Now, Miss Kinney? Where are your parents?"

Carrie jumped a little, and Tim saw her hands curl into loose fists on her lap. "They…uh, couldn't make it. Not tonight."

"Would you like me to call them?"

"No," she sighed. "They're not, you know, _available_ , at the moment."

Hammer sat back a little in his chair, making the leather squeak underneath him. "I guess that's fine. But if you don't have guardians present, we can't proceed. So you, Miss Kinney, are free to go. For now."

Carrie shot Tim an apologetic glance, and slowly stood. As she turned to leave, she paused, sighed, and said slowly, "Sir, it's  _Kelley."_

"Pardon?"

"My name," she said with a frown. "Is Carrie  _Kelley."_

"Right. Of course." The Headmaster nodded, and waited for the door to click shut behind her. Then, he sighed. "I can never remember all these names. At any rate, I think it's time to discuss the elephant in the room."

Mr. Clark tipped his chin up. "That is to say, whether we'll be suing those two excuses for guardians over there, or this fine institution? If I'm being honest, I'm more inclined to place the blame on Mr. Wayne, and his poor parenting skills."

Tim almost jumped out of his seat. Poor parenting skills? This, coming from the man who raised Rafe Clark? He would have laughed if he wasn't biting his tongue quite so hard.

"No, no," Mrs. Clark crooned. "Bruce isn't responsible. It's just that those children are practically raising themselves! Why, I heard—"

"Actually, ma'am," Dick interjected, "I was under the impression that we're here to talk about disciplinary action. Let's start with that, how about?" He waved a hand over at Tim and Damian, who were looking back at him with somber frowns. "Did they get into a fight? Yes. But was it justified?"

Tim waited for the answer, but it didn't come. He noticed that Dick was watching him expectantly, almost pleadingly. But it was Damian who supplied the answer. He slipped his phone out of his backpack and tapped the screen.

"Tt, of course it was justified," Damian snapped. "Just look at what those two imbeciles circulated to our classmates."

Tim bit the side of his cheek, and watched Dick and Babs' eyes light up with anger as they watched the clip on a loop over and over and over. Dick glowered up at Abraham Vanaver, and Barbara's eyes stayed fixed on the screen. He could almost see the gears turning in her head, and for a minute, he'd actually forgotten that she used to be the Oracle. And she was still one of the best hackers in the world. If he knew his sister, she was probably thinking of about a million ways to rain her cyber-wrath down upon both socialite families.

"I'm thinking," Dick said, voice low, "that they were completely justified."

"Of course, you would, Grayson," Abraham said coldly. "That type of brawling as a means of solving problems is typical of your people, no?"

Dick reared back. "My people? What—"

"Romani filth," Elizabeth Vanaver sniffed. She looked down her nose at Dick. "Circus folk.  _Gypsies."_

Tim, Damian and Barbara all straightened in their seats, eyes widening in indignation. Dick's nostrils flared as he pulled himself up to full seated height. "Your  _sons,"_ he said slowly, "Have been bullying my little brother for years. Are you really surprised that he decided to hit back?"

He kept his tone carefully in check. Tim wasn't sure he would have been able to do the same, under the circumstances. Too many people had poked fun at his half-Japanese heritage through the years, and he wasn’t always as willing to brush it aside as Dick seemed to be.

"Those boys aren't your brothers," Clark sneered. "At most, they're Bruce Wayne's tax write-offs. That's all you are to him, boy. Nothing more than a gypsy pity-case."

Dick's eyes flew open wide. "Now, wait just a minute—"

"Learn your place, Grayson," Abraham said with lidded eyes. "Your kind were meant to serve the elite, not join our ranks, and you would do well to remember that!"

"Let's leave race out of this, why don't we?" Barbara said venomously. "Or else—"

"Strong words, coming from a street w***e!" Mrs. Clark screeched. "My son is in the  _hospital_ because of those little brats! I want justice!" She stood, heels clacking on the tile floor. "I want restitution!"

Barbara jolted to her feet, sticking her face right up in the middle-aged woman's. "I want you all to shut your &*%$&# mouths before I shut 'em for you!"

The other three parents and Dick were standing before Tim had the chance to fully understand what had just happened. They were shouting over each other so loudly, that he almost wanted to cover his ears. Damian glanced over at him, wide-eyed. Tim could only shrug.

"You pretentious bi—!"

"—go back to the brothel, you—"

"—circus trash! How dare you act like you—!"

"—windbag like you could—!"

"—yeah? Well go to h—"

"—how do you people even _breathe_ at night? I can't—"

"—believe you people actually reproduced? You—"

"—dare to speak to me, in this manner?"

"Do you know who I am? What I could do to you in the snap of a finger?" Elizabeth Vanaver roared.

"Oh, you have no idea," Barbara snarled back. "Try me, Vanaver. I dare you!"

" _Enough!"_

Hammer slammed both of his hands down on the desk. Everyone paused, looking at the usually mild-mannered headmaster with two parts annoyance and one part shock. He eyed them all carefully and said, quietly, "This is no way to set an example for your children. Tim? Damian?"

Both boys straightened a little.

"Are you sorry?" he said, eyes pleading with them to just play along.

But Damian scowled. "Not in the le—"

Tim wedged an elbow into his little brother' ribs. "We're sorry that Ben and Rafe got hurt. What they did wasn't right, either, but we're sorry that it came to blows."

"Dang straight, they weren't in the right," Barbara said, folding her arms. "Neither side was. But I'd like a guarantee that those boys are going to face punishment for what they did. I'm talking suspension at the very least."

Mrs. Clark's face reddened. She jabbed a finger in Barbara's direction. "My husband and I will discipline our Rafe. There's no need for the school to get involved."

"Headmaster," Dick said coolly, "Raphael and Benjamin have been in here a lot, haven't they? And not just for what they've done to Tim?"

Hammer seemed hesitant to agree, but he nodded.

"Well, then, maybe its time to amp up the punishment," he continued. "But just so that its fair to both sides, Tim and Damian should face consequences, too."

Tim and Damian shot their older brother betrayed glances. They hadn't done anything wrong! Not really…

The Headmaster nodded again, finally smiling a little. "That sounds about fair. But I think that suspension for either side is a bit…excessive."

The Clarks and Vanavers indicated their agreement. Barbara's eyes narrowed a little.

"Really?" Tim heard her mutter under her breath. " _Excessive?"_

"So how about this? Detention all around for three weeks—once Benjamin and Raphael get out of the hospital, of course."

Dick crossed his arms. "And how about four weeks of community service?"

"What?" Tim demanded. The adults all glared at him, but he could only stare at his older siblings in dismay. He glanced at Barbara, but her expression was equally as firm as Dick's.

"I agree," she said. "That's a fair punishment, all things considered." Then, she squinted in the Vanavers' direction and said, voice tight with anger, "So there's really no need to bring in legal action."

Abraham watched Dick and Barbara carefully. Tim watched his steely eyes move from their shoulders—so close that they may as well have been touching—and down to their arms. Mirrored stances and postures. Something like amusement flickered on his face, before he schooled it back into nonchalance. Tim almost missed the change, but once he did, it settled like a rock in the pit of his stomach.

There was something definitely not right about Abraham Vanaver.

"I agree," he finally said. The baritone of his voice was both soothing and off-putting at the same time. "Are we done here, then, Hammer?"

The Headmaster started a little, but nodded. "Er…yes. Thank you all for…coming…"

He trailed off when the Vanavers and Clarks strode out of the room without even waiting for him to finish his sentence. As Abraham Vanaver passed, he glanced down at Tim, and gave him a shark-like smile.

"Your time will come, boy," he muttered. "And I look forward to it."

With that, they were gone. Hammer turned to Barbara and Dick, sighing.

"I'm afraid there's not much more I can do," he said. "Punishing those two boys even  _this_ much is…difficult, to say the least. Their families are some of the most powerful in the city. But I am sorry, Timothy. For everything."

Tim nodded, but couldn't manage to swallow the lump in his throat. Three weeks stuffed into a classroom after school with Rafe and Ben  _and_ Damian? Not to mention all the hard labor ahead?

He was dead. May as well accept the fact now.

Barbara was watching him. He could feel the heat of her gaze. She and Dick shared a nod, had some kind of silent conversation, and Dick put a hand on Damian's shoulder.

"Hey, Lil' D," he said warmly, "Let's go have a chat, okay?"

Damian's countenance sank. "Alright."

"And Timmy," Barbara said, "Let's head back home."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"So, I think it's safe to assume that the Vanavers and the Clarks are Court members." Barbara's fingers squeaked against the leather steering wheel as she clenched her fists. "That little 'confrontation' gave us more than enough evidence, just like we planned. So, even though I probably shouldn't say this, Tim, thanks for giving us the chance to have a chat with those windbags."

Tim nodded, turning off his phone. The messages from Tam were still seared into his retinas, and he bit his lip. "Mm-hmm."

"You heard Creepy Abe's last statement, right?" Barbara threw up a hand, squinting at the dark horizon. "He essentially issued a death threat! I mean, come on!"

Tim said nothing. Sure, what Vanaver said didn't sit right, but he couldn't really bring himself to care too much at the moment.

"Are you okay?"

Barbara's voice floated over the sound of the car's engine. Tim was a little too busy counting the white lines on the road as they streaked by to meet her eyes. So he just shrugged.

"It's more than the fight," she decided, nodding to herself. "So, what else is wrong?"

He didn't answer. Just fingered the woven cloth handle on his backpack. The fabric was bumpy and textured enough to keep him focused on something other than the—

"Oh.  _Timmy._ " Barbara eased into the next lane, making the turn off that would take them in the direction of Wayne Manor. Her tone turned sad, comforting. She reached over with one hand, laying it on his shoulder. "Did you and Tam—?"

World's Greatest Detective, indeed. Tim's eyes stung.

"Timmy?" she asked again.

A sound leaked out of his throat against his will, and after that, there was no going back. His shoulders shook as the tears leaked down his face. He cried all the way back to the house, and Barbara muttered reassurances and apologies as they pulled into the garage. Then, she pulled the key out of the ignition with a sigh as she handed him a tissue and led him inside, still sniffling.

Steph and Jason were at the table with some guy, showing him something on Jason's phone. They were all laughing, but stopped and looked up as soon as Tim and Barbara stepped into the room.

"Heya, Boss-lady!" Steph said, saluting with a wave of her hand. "Where're Dick and the dem—um. I mean, Damian?"

Barbara walked past them and opened the freezer. "They're having a talk. Then patrol. Steph, do you still have the Fudge Ripple—?"

"In the back." Steph's eyes met Tim's, and her smile dripped off her face. "Tim? Is everything okay?"

His tongue felt like a lead weight. He blinked quickly, and managed a shrug. Barbara gently slammed the frosty container of Fantastic Fudge Ripple onto the countertop, and glanced over at Steph. Jason and the new guy were gaping up at her.

"Code Split," she said.

Steph pushed out her chair so hard it flew a few feet back. Just like that, she was all business. "On it! I'll grab the blankets and the remote. Timmy, get a spoon and the ice cream and meet me on the couch. Go!"

She spun out of the kitchen, and the guy gave Jason a wide-eyed look.

"Yeah," Jason said, shrugging, "But what can I say? She's pretty darn amazing."

"Hey," Babs said quickly, "Where's D—Nightshade?"

Jason raised an eyebrow at her tongue-slip, and the corner of his mouth quirked up. "Um, da Nightshade is in da Cave where you and da Batman left him. I think he's checking da security, or ordering something off da internet—"

She sighed. "Oh, shut up."

Jason shot a grin at the new guy and followed Steph out of the room, leaving Barbara and Tim alone. Her eyes were soft as she scrutinized him, arms gently crossed over her stomach.

"What was that all about?" he asked her, running a hand under one of his eyes. “Code Split?”

She shrugged one shoulder. "Steph has this whole thing where she helps people through breakups. You should have seen Beast Boy when he and Terra split. Brace yourself, though."

"How come?"

"Rom-com marathon," Babs said. She smiled, but Tim could tell it was strained.

Come to think of it, she hadn't really been herself today. Her eyes kept shifting, fists kept clenching, and her shoulders were tensed up. Like she had the urge to rip apart anyone inside her blood circle. Or, like she was hiding something.

"Is everything okay with you?" he asked her.

"Hmm?" She looked up. "Oh. Yeah. How come?"

Tim shook his head and opened one of the kitchen drawers, hunting for a decent sized spoon. "You're tense. Not yourself."

"Just a lot on my mind." Her shoulders relaxed a little, and her smile became a little more genuine. "Go meet Steph. Have the night off, Timmy. You've earned it."

"Okay," he said, twirling one of Alfred's silver spoons between his fingers. He snagged the container of ice cream off the counter and gave her one last look. "But you'd tell me, right? If there was something wrong?"

"Of course."

Tim turned to leave. Somehow, he wasn't quite sure he believed her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"So."

Damian actually cringed. "So?"

Dick leaned up against the lockers, and he could feel the cold metal through his t-shirt. Man, it had been so long since he'd been in these halls (last week didn't count). Gotham Academy still looked, smelled, and felt exactly the same as it had back when Dick had gone there. It was weird that the smell of bleach and axe body spray triggered his nostalgia, but he just went with it.

"You picked a fight with the two biggest dudes on the football team." Dick tried to keep his expression stern, but he was honestly having a hard time. "And  _won."_

"Yes." Damian jammed his hands into his jacket pockets.

"All because they were picking on Tim."

The kid winced. "So? Their laughter was interrupting my studies. Any other student concerned with their education would have done the same."

"Right."

"Are you…angry?"

Dick lost control of his expression, and his mouth pulled up into a huge grin. "Am I  _angry?"_ he demanded, chuckling, "Dami, let me tell you something." He pushed off the lockers and looped an arm around Damian's shoulders. His other hand waved through the air. "Your awesome older brother, Dick Grayson, wasn't always this cool—"

"Was he ever?" Damian muttered.

"Ouch. Okay. That one hurt, but I'll overlook it." Dick's smile was still wide. "What I mean is, that back in the day, I was what you'd call a 'mathlete'. A pretty dang good one, too. Look for my picture in the trophy case sometime. It's an inspiration."

The kid's eyelids drooped. "Are you trying to make a point, Grayson?"

"Yes! And it's this: I had my fair share of bullies back in the day. Turns out, being a math whiz isn't exactly an 'in' with the ladies." He huffed, smiling nostalgically into the distance. "What I'm trying to say, though, is that I wish that I'd had somebody looking out for me. Besides Babs, I mean. But back in the day, we didn’t really…uh, anyway. I want to thank you, Lil' D, for having Timmy's back today."

Damian relaxed. "It was nothing."

"That's not true." Dick shook the kid's shoulders teasingly, and led him down the hall towards the set of glass doors. The green EXIT sign above them glowed in the dark. "I mean, beating them up probably wasn't okay. You  _did_ kinda put them in the hospital, buddy."

"I have no regrets."

"See, that kind of thing worries me a little. But while I'm supposed to discourage violence out of uniform, I gotta say…I'm proud of you, Dami."

Damian didn't say anything as they pushed open the glass doors. They made a small whooshing sound, and a blast of the chill night air hit them in the face as they stepped out into the dark. There was just enough light from the streetlamps to see the concrete steps in front of them, and the parked cars scattered sparsely in front of the school. Dick took the first step down.

There was a small click.

He paused, and heard Damian's muffled cry.

Dick whirled to turn around, but he felt a puff of warm air against the shell of his ear and froze.

"Don't make another move, or I'll paint the sidewalk with the boy's brains."

Dick used his peripherals. Red hair. Glasses. Dark trench coat.

And a black pistol jammed underneath Damian's chin.

"What do you want?" Dick asked carefully.

He could tell that the stranger's arm was wrapped tight around his little brother's neck. And his grip must have been vise-like, because Damian could break out of almost any hold. The positioning of the gun was interesting too; his little brother wouldn't be able to twist away from the barrel. And with the way the man shielded Damian and the gun with his body, there was no way Dick could disarm him.

No escape.

"Where's your girlfriend?" the man asked softly. His breath stirred the hair around Dick's ear, and he shivered. "I thought she was supposed to be here, too."

He shrugged. "I'm not sure what you're talking about. Now, please, let my brother go."

There was a dry chuckle. "I can't do that, Mr. Grayson."

"Why?" Dick reached for his pocket with the hand he knew the man wouldn't be able to see. Inside was his phone. All he had to do was press down on the home button long enough, and it would send a signal to the Cave. "He's just a kid. I'd make a better hostage, don't you think?"

Judging from the pause, Dick must have guessed the motive correctly.

"I'm afraid not, handsome," the man droned. "Now. Put your hands up. There's a black sedan parked exactly fifteen feet away from us. Walk with me."

Dick's feet moved of their own accord. The three of them shuffled down the stairs together, and across the sidewalk. Dick with his hands up, and Damian with his air restricted. When they reached the black car, Dick could see a man in the front seat, peering back at them through the tinted glass.

"Get inside."

He hesitated. "You don't have to do this."

"I really do, Grayson." The man pressed the barrel harder into Damian's skin, and the kid let out a small sound that made Dick grit his teeth. "Now. Be a good boy and climb into the backseat. Buckle yourself in. On the center console, you'll find a pair of handcuffs. Put them on. You'll do all this without protest or hesitation, or there won't be enough left of the boy to identify."

Dick glowered. But he lowered one hand and reached for the handle. The cold metal bit into his palm as he pulled open the door.

"Good. Inside, now."

He slid into the seat. The belt clicked into the buckle. He reached for the cuffs, then turned to glare up at his kidnapper.

And he gaped.

He'd seen the man on the news, and he was supposed to be hidden away at Arkham Asylum. The deepest, darkest basement in the place, actually. His picture had been tacked to Commissioner Gordon's cork-board for years. Jim Gordon never talked about the man, but Dick knew from Bruce that it was a source of shame and regret best left unaddressed.

The man holding Damian at gunpoint was—

"James Gordon." Dick's voice cracked. "The Commissioner's son."

"And here I thought you were just a pretty face," he sneered.

The door slammed shut with a bang.

 

 


	16. Casualties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your comments! :D I love hearing your feedback, and it's great to see so many positive responses!
> 
> Just a bit of fair warning, things are going to get pretty bad, especially for Barbara (poor girl). But just bear with me, ok? :) I promise it's all going to be okay!   
> That being said, please don't hate me for this chapter...........

 

Four days.

It had been four agonizing, sleepless days since Dick and Damian hadn't come home from patrol, and already, Barbara was beginning to feel herself start to break down.

She, Jason, Steph and Tim had combed the city high and low. Pressing every underworld connection and source they could think of. Terry and Nightshade (calling him Damian…she couldn't do that. Not yet.) had offered to help, and reassured them that everything would work out fine. After all, Dick and Damian were alive and well in their time.

But even so, something didn't sit right with her.

Then, on the third night, she got the call. Barbara had just gotten off the phone with Cal, who swore up and down that the Court—and therefore the Vanavers and Clarks—had nothing to do with Batman and Robin's disappearances. She put the phone down, buried her face in her hands, and felt all the air leave her lungs. She couldn't cry, no matter how much she wanted to.

And then, the phone rang again. She picked it up without even checking the screen, thinking that it was Cal trying to follow up with something new. But as soon as she pressed it to her ear, all she could hear was breathing on the other end.

"Who is this?" she demanded.

"Hello, Barbara."

She'd panicked for a second, before she remembered that it was her civilian cell. But even then, she could still feel the buzz of adrenaline as she swallowed hard and managed to ask again. "Who  _is this?_ "

"I must say," the voice crooned. "I'm hurt that you don't recognize me."

"Why should I?"

"Because. If there was anyone on this green earth who could understand, or put a name to this sweet, sweet voice, it's  _you._ We're blood." The last word was growled out, and it sent a shiver down Barbara's spine. Then the voice switched to a lighter tone. "But, if you don't recognize me, then maybe you'll know this one—"

There was a soft grunt on the other end of the line, and a click that she recognized as a pistol being cocked. She could feel ice spread through her veins. Then, she heard a familiar voice.

"H-hello?"

She gasped. "Dick?"

"Babs?"

"Can you tell me where you are? What are you seeing right now?" She ran toward the BatComputer, fingers flying over the keys as she desperately tried running a trace on the call. "Please, babe, I need you to—"

"I'm afraid I'll have to interrupt," the man said softly. There was a small scream on the other end of the line that made Barbara's heart fly up into her throat. "But I'm sure that you'll have time for a heart to heart with your boy-toy later. If I don't rip his heart out, first, that is."

Her eyes traced over the triangulation protocol on the screen. The BatComputer placed the signal on the East Side. Slowly narrowing the search…

"If you hurt them," she snarled into the phone, "You're  _dead."_

"That's the spirit, cousin. Just what I like to hear."

That's when it hit her. She had only one cousin—one that she knew of, at any rate.

"James?" she whispered.

"Like I said." A soft chuckle. Then, "How long have I been on the line now? One minute, thirty-seven seconds? I'm pretty certain that it takes thirty to track a cell signal. Thirty three, with my particular model. But if I'm right, you've only been tracking me for twenty-one now."

The computer screen fizzled slightly with static. Barbara's eyes widened as blackness began to leech from the corners of the monitors, converging to the center. Slowly, she lowered the phone from her ear as she gaped up at the virus slowly eating away at the circuits behind the screens. She was watching the BatComputer burn—from the inside. There were a few pops in the speakers, and with one final snap, her entire system crashed. "James, wait! How—"

"Goodbye, Barbara."

The call, just like the Bat-Cave's systems, went totally dead.

She threw down the phone with a cry. It shattered into a dozen pieces, which skittered across the Cave floor. " _No!"_

It was only then that she'd noticed Stephanie staring at her, wide-eyed. "What…what just  _happened?"_ she demanded, staring in horror at the smoking, useless heap of wires and ruined circuitry. A sour, burning smell permeated the air. Steph covered her nose with her sleeve, and coughed.

Barbara put a hand over her eyes, struggling to compose herself, then said slowly,

"Get me Gordon. Now."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dick held his wrist close to his chest. The bone, the muscles, all of it was on fire, and he resisted the urge to let out another wail of pain. But still, as he pressed his chin into his chest, teeth clenched tight, he managed to groan the words out.

"D-didn't…tell her…anyth-thing."

"Oh, I know you didn't, pretty boy." James's boot planted itself in Dick's side, and he let out another pained gasp. "But you were  _going_ to. And I'm not ready for my dear cousin to crash this party. Not quite yet."

Over on the other side of the room, Damian let out a weak snarl. Dick wanted to turn his head, tell the kid not to say anything, not to make himself more of a target than he already was, but he didn't dare. For days, he'd had to force himself to look away when Damian screamed. To feign indifference when his brother called out his name. He knew the minute he seemed to show any kind of attachment to the kid, Damian's life would get infinitesimally worse. Their captors would use him to torture Dick. And he would  _not_ let that happen. He would _die_ before he did.

James was circling him carefully, and Dick didn't dare breathe, let alone open his mouth.

"See, that's the thing," James said. His voice was contemplative, yet dripping with malice. "At first, I was going to grab her and your little brother over there. I'd have let Todd have the boy, and I would have taken the woman. Just like we always do."

The grizzled older man standing over Damian let out a soft grunt, and scowled.

"He prefers the boys. Enjoys taking his anger out on them. I presume he has some sort of familial grudge towards a son or a nephew, but I don't pry. I just like to watch."

Dick's stomach twisted. Damian had already been beaten with a piece of iron rebar, and burned with the lit end of a cigarette. His tormenter—Todd, James called him—didn't seem to enjoy  _anything_ about the torture. Just grit his teeth and roared in anger.

"I myself prefer the women," James mused. "Though not for the reason you may think. I just enjoy…listening to them scream. Have you ever noticed, Grayson? Just how beautiful screams really are?"

He didn't answer. For three days, he and Damian had both been beaten, burned and bruised. All with the knowledge that, sooner or later, Babs and the others would find them. Get them out of this dusty old basement apartment. And hopefully, kick these maniacs' teeth in.

But now, he wasn't so sure he wanted anyone to come.

"Todd and I have been partners for  _years._ He continued our games without me, though, during my stint in the asylum. However…" Dick could almost hear the smirk in James's voice. "One night, all the cage doors were thrown open, and I just…flew away. And I devised a way to arrange a little family reunion. Which, of course, brings me back to my original plan—"

Dick's breathing hitched, and he raised his head slightly. "It's you. You're the Triple B Killer. You and…him."

"And while my cousin would have been a more preferable guest, I suppose I got the next best thing." James's fingers gripped Dick's hair and jerked his head up. So that all he could see was his captor's face. "Which is you. But, I suppose everything works out for the best. I can't imagine anything more delicious than watching her run all over this green earth trying to find her little lost boys. The agony. The fear. The  _panic._ I wonder, how loud will she scream when she sees what I'm going to do to you?"

Dick swallowed hard. His tongue stuck to the dry roof of his mouth. " _& *$^*%&," _he whispered, hoarsely.

"My only regret," James mused, releasing his hold. "Is that once she  _does_ inevitably find us—and she will, mark my words—I'm afraid I'm going to have to kill you. It's a shame, really, but as I said. Inevitable."

Dick glowered at the musty carpet. He hadn't fought back, all this time. Through the beatings, and the starvation. Because he knew that the moment he did, James and Todd would put a bullet through Damian's brain. Or maybe something worse. But if they killed Dick…where would that leave his brother?

"She won't…find us," Damian snarled. His voice was strained, and it made Dick's heart race. How much longer could they last without food? How much longer were they going to last at all?

"What was that?"

The anger in James's voice was palpable. Dick had to deflect it, before Damian got another beating. He fixed his captor with an icy stare. "You’re wrong. She isn't coming."

"Hn. I can see in your eyes that even you don't really believe that. Still." James landed another kick to his ribs, and Dick let out a small cry. "Great intelligence does run in the family, Grayson. I don't underestimate Batwoman's intellect in the slightest."

Dick and Damian both looked up sharply. All the color drained from their faces as James tilted his head back and let out a long, cruel bout of laughter.

Dick's fingers squeezed his aching wrist even tighter. "H-how—?"

"You truly think I didn't know?" James gasped. He straightened, grinning down at Dick triumphantly. "Barbara Gordon. Batgirl. Oracle. And now Batwoman."

Damian strained against the zipties around his wrists. "It's  _Delphi,"_ he snapped. "Barbara…D-Delphi."

Dick squinted at the man. If he knew all of that about Barbara, then he would have known her surname was really Kean. He'd made the slip on purpose, but for what reason, he couldn't begin to guess.

He watched James lift his hand up towards the clock on the wall. The bent second hand clicked around the circle, and with each passing second, the serial killer's grin grew wider.

"Only a matter of time, you two," he said. "Before we see her true colors."

 

 

* * *

  

 

"What can you tell me, Jim?"

Barbara and Jason had pushed through the swarm of rabid reporters, tired cops and anxious detectives. Their only island in the feeding frenzy was Jim Gordon's office. And as soon as all three of them tripped inside, the door had been slammed shut and locked. Tragically, they'd lost Tim and Stephanie somewhere in the sea of sensationalists looking for the next story to put on the evening news.

Not that Dick and Damian's faces hadn't  _already_ been plastered over every screen in Gotham for the last four days.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you anything new," Gordon sighed. He pressed both fists against the top of his desk, letting his head drop.

"Did your people dig anything up about the cell used in the call?" Barbara demanded. "I gave you the list of possible—"

Jim raised a hand, and the other pushed up beneath his glasses to rub his eyes. "Other than the fact that the phone used was a throwaway, we haven't been able to narrow much down. I'm sorry. But with all due respect, aren't  _you_ people supposed to be the detectives?"

Jason's expression darkened. "We've had a few…technical difficulties."

Barbara felt a twinge in her chest, and just like that, it suddenly felt like all the air had left the room. Dick and Damian were in the hands of a notorious serial killer (She'd figured James, and possibly an accomplice, must be the Triple B Killers. All the evidence seemed to stack up.) and there was  _no_ clear way for her to get them back. Then, on top of everything else, the Bat Cave's systems—the ones she, Dick, and Bruce had so carefully designed and set up—were gone. In the blink of an eye.

She'd studied James Gordon under the original Batman. Compiled info and stats on the man—all of which she dumped into the BatComputer's databases. He was brilliant, she knew. A textbook psychopath and narcissist. But…he shouldn't have been able to hack into the Cave system. He shouldn't have been able to destroy  _everything…_

Jason and the Commissioner were both staring at her, and Barbara realized that her eyes were brimming. Her little brother's face was drawn.

"Babs?" he asked her softly.

No. This was what James wanted. She'd read his file. She'd studied him intensely ever since the night she found out they shared a family tree. He got off on torture.  _Psychological_ torture. And if she allowed herself to break down now, then she'd be as useless to the others as the BatComputer.

Just like that, steely resolve replaced the icy tendrils of fear in her veins. She squared her shoulders and set her jaw.

"I'm going to need access to the GCPD's systems, Jim," she said firmly. "How fast can you get me a laptop?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Tim—ouch! Hey, goatee, watch the #$%% where you're stepping!"

"Steph!" Tim reached out for his sister, but only got a handful of tweed jacket instead. The reporter shrugged him off without glancing back, and Tim stumbled backwards. "Hey!"

The GCPD was filled to the brim with people clamoring for the next great story to put on the news. That is, 'Missing Sons of Bruce Wayne: What We Know'. Except for the glaring fact that  _no_ one knew a &*%$ thing. Dick and Damian had been gone for forty-six hours and twelve minutes, and the rest of the Bats were no closer to finding them than they'd been at hour five.

Tim had suggested calling in the League. The Team, at least. Maybe even the Titans. But as soon as the words left his mouth, Barbara had almost taken his head off.

" _Absolutely not. League interference is the last thing we need right now!"_

" _But—"_

" _No metas, Tim! That's_ final!"

But as he'd watched his older sister these past few days, Tim was beginning to think that sooner or later, they might have to swallow their pride and ask Superman or the Flash for help. Already, he'd called Wally and Artemis to ask for a little bit of discreet backup. With any luck, they'd find their brothers soon.

He couldn't let himself think of the alternative.

Tim could see Steph's fist waving above the crowd of reporters, and heard one last "avenge me!" before he lost her completely. As he glanced around at the chattering horde, he swallowed hard. Now he'd just have to find Jason and Barbara. The two buffest people in the room should stand out, right?

"Timothy!" He heard a voice croon in between the rest of the noise. "We have  _got_  to stop meeting like this."

Tim turned. Right into the predatory gaze of the Vulture Lady herself.

She was dressed in a pressed gray pantsuit, and her grin was larger than the diamond studs in her ears. Tim didn't think he'd ever seen anyone look happier or more…alive…than Vicki Vale did in that moment. And the thought that his brothers' kidnappings were to blame made his blood boil.

Manicured fingernails wrapped around his wrist, and dragged him through the crowd. The cops and reporters parted for Vale like the waters of the Red Sea, and all eyes turned on him. They all eyed Tim jealously, like he was the last slice of devil's food cake at a buffet, and Vicki Vale had snagged him off the table before any of them had the chance.

It was not a pleasant feeling.

The next thing he knew, Tim was thrust into an empty office, and Vale was locking the door behind her. She turned, sized him up with a widening smile, and said, one eyebrow raised, "Alone at last. I hope you don't mind if I ask you a few questions, Mr. Drake?"

Tim gulped, and glanced out the frosted windows. "I, uh, don't think that's a good idea."

But her notepad was already out, and her pen scrawled across the first creamy white page. He winced with every savage stroke.

"Tell me. How has Richard and Damian's disappearances affected the environment at home, Timmy? Are you, Babs, and Jeeves utterly distraught?"

_We're definitely not 'traught'. How would you feel? If the two people keeping 'Babs and Jeeves' sane dropped off the face of the Earth? If your brothers were suddenly just…gone? Not to mention the time-travelers…_

"No comment."

"Hm." Her eyes narrowed. "Alright. How is Jason taking the news?"

Tim almost answered her.  _Jason's so torn up that he can't even sit still for more than five seconds. Let alone get any sleep. None of us can._ "Jason's  _dead._ Can you please just let that go?"

"I'll let it go when your whole 'maintenance man' front starts making sense, Drake. Now, next question. Is it true that Dick Grayson and Barbara Pennyworth are actually engaged?"

Vale's eyes widened back up again, and she leaned forward. Like she was searching his face for any involuntary tic or twitch that would give the answer away. Tim could only shrug, frowning.

_I…don't think so. Not yet, at least. I found the ring in Dick's utility belt two days ago. I haven't told anyone, but especially not Babs. Because I honestly don't know what that would do to her right now. I'm not even sure I know what it's doing to_ me  _right now…_

What if they didn't find Dick and Damian in time? What if that ring stayed in Dick's belt forever, enshrined in yet another glass case in the Cave until the end of time? Tim didn't want to know. He couldn't let himself think that far.

"They're not engaged, Vicki," Tim sighed. "And I  _really_ don't see how that's any of your business."

The reporter clicked her tongue, waving her pen through the air. "Nonsense. The readers love a little drama."

His tone darkened, and Tim crossed his arms tight over his ribcage. So hard that he could feel his heart hammering in his chest. "So, what? Is there not enough 'drama' already?"

"I'll just put down a 'no' for that one." Another fluid strike with the ballpoint of her pen. Her eyes glanced up at his once again. "How would you describe your relationship with Richard and Damian?"

Tim blinked.

_How? I don't know, Vicki. See, as long as I've been a Robin—no, #$%%, as long as I've_ known _him—Dick Grayson has always been there for me. He taught me what it meant to be a hero. And sure, he was a little protective at first, but who could blame him, after what happened to Jason? Think 'big brother'—and not in the Orwellian sense—and that's Dick. Strong, brave, compassionate, funny, and above all,_ good.  _He's the best out of any of us. But you probably didn't want a monologue._

_As for Damian? How would you describe your relationship with a pitbull? A rabid pitbull? He wants to kill me half the time, and the other half, I wanna kill_ him.  _He's arrogant, and so self-assured, like he thinks he's better than all the rest of us just because of some one-night-stand of Bruce's. And you know what? I love him anyway. I actually love the kid like a brother. You'd think I'd have taken a leaf out of Dick's book and figured out how to be the older brother that kid needs, but I'm not. And now, I might never get to be…_

"Tim? Timothy? Timmy Drake?" Vale snapped her fingers in front of his face, and Tim jumped. "How would you describe your relationship with your fellow wards?"

"They're like my brothers," he managed. "I honestly don't know what I'd do without them."

That seemed to satisfy her, and she took it down carefully. "Thank you, Timothy," she said, smoothly. "Now, one last question. If you don't mind?"

His mouth twisted. "I do, actually. But I have a feeling that kind of thing doesn't really turn you off, does it, Vale?"

She smirked at him triumphantly. She definitely knew something he didn't, and Tim had a bad feeling that he wasn't going to like the next question.

"So," Vale said, as the corners of her violently red lips curled upwards, "With Batman and Robin missing, how are the rest of the Bats going to manage this city?"

Tim had been hit by a bus, once. Bad swing off a building, and he'd let off too much slack on his line. He'd swung right into traffic and  _bam!_ That was exactly what it felt like to hear those words come out of the Vulture Lady's mouth.

His internal monologue consisted essentially of the word $#*^ on constant replay.

But he forced a poker face. Whilst silently thanking Jason and Stephanie for all of those nights on slow patrols playing card games and betting smoke pellets and french fries. Vale could search his expression all she liked, but he wouldn't betray anything incriminating.

"Uh, how should I know?" he demanded, narrowing his eyes. "I don't care about those caped weirdos, Vicki! I care about getting my family back. Can we talk about that?"

"All due respect, Mr. Drake, but I'm afraid that's not an answer." One of her eyebrows crawled upwards, and she counted her next words off on her fingers. "Batman and Robin haven't been seen in four days. Not a hint or a whisper of the city's two most prevalent vigilantes since…now, let's see. When did your 'brothers'—who match the physical height and proportions of the two masked heroes, by the way—go missing again?"

_$#*^!_ Was all he could think.  _$#*^, $#*^, $#*^!_

"Vicki, are you implying that  _my brothers—_ Dick 'I'm afraid of my own shadow' Grayson and Damian 'gives no %*&#'s about anyone but himself' Wayne—are actually Batman and Robin in disguise?" He gave the woman his very best ' _are you %* &#*%& kidding me right now?' _stare, but Vale didn't even flinch.

"Something doesn't add up with your little 'family', Drake. And I'm gonna find out exactly what it is you're all hiding." Her fingernails clicked on the door handle, and she shot him a sickly-sweet grin. "Now. Are you going to enlighten me? Or should I raise the gates and let the hungry hordes have their way with you?"

Tim put up his hands. "Vicki, please. I don't know anything about Batman or Robin or any of that. All I know is that my brothers are missing, and we're running out of time to find them. If you're going to put out a story on them, could you at least make it into a plea to the public? To report any signs of them they might find?"

_Okay, Drake. Time to bring on the tears._

"I just need them to come home," he cried. His eyes brimmed over, and wet salty drops trickled down his face. But he hadn't counted on the sudden spike of emotion that surged when he thought of the possibility of never seeing Dick or Damian again. The tears weren't  _all_  faked. "Please, Vicki. Help me find my brothers."

 

 

* * *

 

 

The GCPD brought her a laptop and let her have Gordon's desk. But the thing was  _archaic!_ And she didn't mean the seating arrangements.

Which was why it took her thirty minutes to dissect what was left of James's virus instead of three. First, she had to take the USB drive she'd brought from her cowl and upload the remaining fragments of data from the BatComputer's systems into the laptop. It wasn't much, and it was mostly corrupted, but she managed to keep the virus in check. Then, she typed. Ran diagnostics. Then ran those same diagnostics again.

Jason leaned against the wall by the door. Keeping guard, and keeping an eye on her. Barbara decided she definitely didn't like the way he was looking at her—out of the corner of his constantly shifting eyes.

"I'm fine Jay," she said, over the clacking of her fingernails on the plastic keys. The cheap keyboard felt alien under her fingertips, and she couldn't help but feel a pang of longing for her old system back at the Clocktower in Cormorant.

He started, then relaxed slightly. "Nope. You're definitely not, BW."

"And what makes you say that?"

"You mean, besides the fact that you look like you're gonna murder that screen?" He peeled himself off the wall and took a few steps towards her, until he could rest the heels of his hands on the edge of the desk. "Hey."

Barbara glanced up at his change of tone. The clacking stopped. "What?"

Jason's gaze was intense as he studied her expression. Barbara instantly relaxed every muscle in her face, knowing full well that her brother was just as trained in reading people as the rest of their family. But apparently, she wasn't fast enough. Jason only nodded slowly, contemplatively.

"Okay," he said. "How did it feel?"

She raised an eyebrow. "How did it—what the #$%% are you talking about, Jay?"

"Oh," he said casually, "We both know the others aren't going to say a &*%# thing, even though you're scaring the #$%% out of them. Did you really think we wouldn't notice the mood swings? The way you're pulling away from us? How you're off your game, and none of them can figure out why? The way you totally brushed Dick off the other day, when he asked you if you were okay? And Tim? And Steph? And Alfred, for &*^$'s sake?" His hands waved in the air, and he glowered down at her.

Barbara sat back in her chair and gave him her best Bat-Glare. "I'm tired."

"Yeah. I can tell. But that wasn't my question, was it?" His stare intensified as he slowly lowered his hands. "So, since the others don't have the brains to put it together, or the stones to ask, I guess that falls to me. How did it  _feel,_ Babs?"

"Jay, I  _do not_  know what you're talking about!"

Jason smacked his hand against the desktop. "I'm talking about seeing the &*$^*%&s that broke you in half on the floor bleeding. Standing over 'em and knowing that you hold their tiny pathetic lives in your hands, and with one move—" He snapped his fingers. "You could  _end them!"_

He knew, then. Barbara didn't even waste time asking how, or why, or how long he'd known. But there was something in his tone, in the tilt of his shoulders, that suggested he was trying to get some point or some idea across. So Barbara decided to play along. She pushed out the swiveling chair as she shot to her feet, and its wheels clicked as it spun away.

"It felt  _amazing,"_ she hissed. "It felt like taking back control."

"And losing it at the same time," he finished, staring again.

She nodded, agreeing. "And…it was terrifying. Like standing on the edge of a cliff with one foot over the edge."

"But exhilarating." Jason put both hands on her shoulders. "The best feeling ever, and fifty thousand different kinds of messed up all at once.”

Barbara bit her lip. "I'm not sorry, though, Jay. I didn't like who I became when I did it, but…I didn't hate it either."

He nodded knowingly. And Barbara realized that she was talking to the only other member of her family who could  _understand._ The two of them—both street kids-turned vigilante—were the only ones who had pushed back against the ideals Bruce had spent years force-feeding them every time they put on a mask. That when it came to battling the evils in this city, in this  _world,_ there was only black and white. The right way—Bruce's way—and the wrong way.

The others all knew where they stood. Even Damian had chosen to keep to the side of right.

But Jason and Barbara alone saw the gray. They walked that blurred line.

"Pull me back?” she whispered. "If I ever go too far? You're the only one who can."

Because he was the only one who knew the  _real_ definition of 'too far'. And it wasn't the boundary that Bruce had set.

Her little brother nodded. "You'd do the same for me, sis. But one more question.  _Why?"_

Why, what? Why had she done it? Why had she liked it?

"Because it was justice," she said, voice still barely audible. "Because there—"

"No." He threw up a hand, expression stony and cold. He seemed to be waiting for something. Or, maybe waiting for her to make some sort of connection. "Why _me?_ Specifically? Why do you want me to keep you in check?"

"Because you  _know._ You—" Her voice cut off as the realization hit her like a speeding train. She snagged the backrest of the chair and pulled it close. Before Jason had the chance to smirk, she was already seated back at the desk and typing up a storm.

James's haunting words played over and over in her head as she delved back into the coding she'd isolated from the virus. ' _If there was anyone on this green earth who could understand…it's_ you.'

"That's it," Jason encouraged. He moved to stand next to her chair. “Now think. What was it the old man was always spouting at us?"

She spoke in monotone, eyes still glued to the strings of green numbers and letters. "Most killers fixate on their victims for a reason. Find that reason, find the killer."

"Great. Couldn't remember exactly how he put it," he muttered. "Now. Let's think. Why you? Why Dick? Why Damian? He singled the three of you out for a reason. We find the reason—"

"—we find James." Barbara's index finger tapped impatiently on the desktop as she waited for her next diagnostic to run its course. "He wanted Dick to get to me. But if he wanted to get to  _me…_ why would he need Damian? One hostage would serve the purpose."

"Maybe his partner?" Jason leaned forward, balancing himself with one hand on the back of her chair. "We know the Triple B Killer—stupid friggin' name, by the way—was active before James broke out of Arkham. What do we know about him?"

Barbara hummed thoughtfully. "He took women and ten-to-thirteen-year-old boys. Always with the same descriptions. Like…Damian. Based on the autopsies, he displayed more violence towards the kids."

"Meaning?" Jason prompted.

"That  _that's_ where his motivation lies. Revenge."

He reached forward and tapped the desk next to her finger. "Work your magic. Do a search for tragedies and accidents involving boys in that age group."

She opened another window on the screen. "I need more than that, boy wonder."

"Tt. Haven't called me  _that_ in a long time…uh, you guys figured the guy would be in his fifties or sixties? Try the last thirty-five years."

Barbara put that in, and started combing. The screen displayed 536 results. "Gimme more."

"Involving red-headed women in their twenties or thirties?"

She huffed in frustration. "The number of black-haired and red-headed people in this city is  _absurd!"_

"Hey. Least we're not all blonde, like they are over in Star City." He squinted at the screen. "Hold up. There."

On the laptop's screen, there were still 124 results. But towards the top of the list, there was a news article from twenty-two years ago. Barbara clicked on it, and frowned at the picture of a burnt-out apartment building.

"Fire," she said flatly. "CSI determined it was arson. Let's see…"

She skimmed the article carefully, then swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. "It spread up towards the top of the building, but miraculously, almost everyone made it out alive. They called it a miracle—"

" _Almost_ everyone?" Jason asked.

"It says here that there were two casualties. A woman named Jeannie Kern and her unborn child."

Her brother winced. "Eesh. Let me guess, Jeannie was a red-head? I'd say that qualifies as a tragedy. Do they know who set the fire?"

Barbara's mouth twisted. "The article says that Mrs. Kern was watching her nephew for the day, when he started lighting fires with a book of matches found in the home. The flames got out of control, and…she didn't make it out."

Jason frowned, straightening slowly. She glanced up at him, and saw that his brow was furrowed nervously. "Babs," he said, voice trembling slightly. "What was the name of the kid? Her nephew?"

Barbara glanced back at the article, still skimming. Down, down the page, until her eyes landed on the name. She could feel the hair stand up on the back of her neck, and she let out a sharp breath. Then read the name out loud.

"They called him Willie. But his name was…” Her voice hitched. “Willis Todd."

Her little brother's shoulders dropped like lead weights, and he heaved a shaky sigh.

"Well," he managed. The tone of his voice was eerily calm. "Of %*!%^#& course _._ I'd say we found our guy."

She moved on quickly. "The apartments were restored and refurbished. But the building's condemned."

"Wanna bet that's where we find our killer?"

"No. It's too easy." She opened up another search window. "If James is targeting me, trying to play some sort of sick mind game, he wouldn't choose somewhere we could just google. So we'll need to think like him. If my partner was related to Jeannie Kern, and he wanted revenge on her killer via a surrogate, where would I set up shop?" Barbara paused, and snapped her fingers. "Or, better yet, if I was a psychopath trying to throw my cousin off my trail, where would I hide?"

"The partner would want to be somewhere that reminded him of what happened," Jason mused. "He's pretty hung up on that tragedy, I'd think."

"Can't say I blame him."

"Same here," he huffed. "So, would he want to stay close?"

"That's…exactly it." Barbara's eyes widened, and she turned back to the laptop, hurrying to bring up a digital map of the scene of the crime. "The apartment building that was burned up in the fire was part of a complex— _all_ of which is condemned. James wanted us to go to the wrong apartment, but be close enough to watch us try—and fail—to find Dick and Damian."

Jason let out a low whistle.

Barbara tapped her screen. "But, that doesn't mean James doesn't  _want_ us to find him. I'd bet my cowl that they're right  _here._ The basement apartment across the complex from where we first thought. The visibility would be perfect."

He nodded, and looked her in the eye. "Then what the #$%% are we waiting for? Let's go get our guys."

"I just need to finish with the coding."

She closed the search windows, and ran one last diagnostic. Finally, the lines of code disappeared, replaced by a scrolling string of green words on the black screen.

**GOOD WORK. PERHAPS YOU ARE A WORTHY MEMBER OF THE GORDON LINE. WHEN YOU DO FIND ME COME ALONE. OR I WILL TEAR OUT THE LITTLE ONES EYES AND MAKE YOU WATCH. TIL WE MEET AGAIN BARBARA_**

The screen went black, and a sharp, tangy burning smell wafted up from the laptop. The keyboard sparked, and Jason jumped.

"Right," he said, "But you're not actually going alone, right?"

"Tt. Of course not." Barbara glowered at the ruined computer. Whichever officer she'd borrowed it from was going to be royally ticked off. "He already expects me to bring backup, and there's no way I'm going in there without a contingency."

"Which would be?"

She nodded her head. "You."

The door flew open with a bang, and Tim dove inside before the grasping hands of a thousand reporters could pull him back out. He slammed it closed again, and pressed his back against the heavy wood. His chest heaved, and he glanced up at them with wide eyes.

"Oh," he gasped. "There you guys are. We have a pretty major problem."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"G-Grayson—hhk!"

Dick's fingers dug into the sides of his head, teeth clenched so tight that he could feel the ache all the way up in his temples. Two tears streaked down his cheeks as he forced himself to stay quiet. To not look up. To not react.

"H-help m—ah!"

There was another dull crack of iron on flesh. Damian let out another short cry of agony as Todd brought the pipe down on his small body over and over again. Dick had been listening for hours now, and the sound of Damian beginning to break down was tearing him apart. The thought that needled at the edge of his mind—that this was what Jason had died from—was a clenched fist around Dick's lungs.

But James was watching him. A huddled, shaking heap on the floor, trying to block out the sounds of his brother's cries for help. And the psychopath was actually  _enjoying_ it. Every now and then, he prodded at Dick's side with the tip of his boot. Or, if he was in a particularly provocative mood, James would lean down and slice open the skin on his arms or the back of his neck with a boxcutter. But the resulting stings were nothing compared the feeling of utter helplessness that covered him like a shroud.

"This is for her, Willie!" Todd screamed, bringing the pipe down again and again. "This is for what you  _did!"_

Damian was straining at the zip ties and calling out weakly for his brother. Dick raised his chin and looked James square in the eye.

"You'll…pay for this," he growled low in his throat. "I promise."

James only smirked. The hand holding his pistol raised up towards Damian, and Todd paused, staring at his partner with wild, maddened eyes. Dick couldn't make himself look at Damian—didn't want to see how badly he was hurt. If he did, it might just drive him over the edge.

"That sounds a lot like defiance, pretty boy," he said smugly. "And, as we discussed before, defiance means a bullet in your baby brother's brains."

Dick wanted to rocket to his feet. One quick jab to the inside of the man's wrist, and he'd be disarmed. Just like that. He'd been fantasizing for days, now, of all the ways he could neutralize their captors and get Damian to safety.

But between lack of food, minimal water, and the nylon zip-ties around his ankles… Any movement sent a wave of dizziness to his head, filling his vision with swirling dots and sparkles. Besides, he wasn't willing to risk a slow, sloppy attack when his opponent had a gun trained on his brother.

"But I can understand your frustration." James's tone took a mock-sympathetic edge that made Dick's jaw clench tighter. "How long must we wait? I'm surprised cousin Barbara hasn't found us by now. Granted, that nasty little virus I planted in her computer was a bit of a hang up. But I figured that she of all people would have found a workaround by now."

Every dusty lightbulb in the apartment flickered out with a pop. Dick straightened, and strained his neck, trying to look around. The movement sent a shock of pain down his spine, as he both aggravated his cuts, and finally unbent his back for the first time in hours. James and Todd both raised their weapons, and yanked their respective captives to their feet.

Dick grunted in pain as James's forearm snaked over his throat, and he let his head loll to the side. Waves of dizziness washed over his eyes. The sociopath dragged him across the room, having to hold Dick's entire weight, as his knees didn't have the strength to support himself.

When they finally reached the wall, James paused, breathing heavily into his ear. Dick let out a soft groan.

Then the lights flickered back on.

He could see Batwoman standing with Batman on the other side of the room. They glared over at James as Todd dragged an equally despondent Damian over towards Dick.

Dick's head spun in confusion. He thought  _he_  was Batman…? So who was…?

Oh. Jason. Of course. Probably some sort of ploy to protect his identity…little late for that, though…

James's grip on him tightened. Dick opened his mouth, and let out a small croaking gasp.

And then Barbara's eyes landed on his.

Her mouth curled into a snarl.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Barbara only barely stopped herself from crying out when she saw her boys.

Dick was covered in blood from cuts she couldn't see. His wrist and neck and eyes were bruised, and his lip was bleeding and swollen. He stared at her with moist blue eyes, flinching whenever James moved, and opened his mouth to let out a sound like a deflating tire.

Damian…Barbara almost screamed when she saw him. She could already feel Jason tensing up beside her as they both saw their baby brother's injuries. He had broken bones. Several. That, alone, was easy to see right off the bat. He was bleeding, too, from multiple lacerations and cuts all over his skin. She could even see circular burns spotting his arms like polka dots. He'd been beaten and burned, and the poor kid looked like he was on the brink of breaking down.

But Barbara didn't see red. She saw white. Rage burned in her chest ten times hotter than normal anger.

"James," she snarled. "Let them go, and this ends quickly."

Her cousin only smirked, and moved his free hand down to the wall behind him. "Now, sweet Barbara, what would be the fun in that?"

"He knows, too!?" Jason demanded. "Well &*$%, why don't we just go shout it from the rooftops now?"

The wall behind James and Dick swung inwards, and they disappeared with a cackle.

"Batman, get Robin!" she called out. Barbara lunged forward, diving through the opening before it had the chance to swing shut.

Her elbows hit dust-caked concrete, and she let out a hacking cough as the musty stuff filled her mouth. With the hidden door closed again, she was trapped in complete darkness. And somewhere, James was lurking in the shadows, just waiting to kill Dick, and then her.

Barbara brought up a hand to activate her mask's night vision. But before she got that chance, a single lightbulb clicked on, illuminating the dilapidated room with grainy yellow light. Now, she could get a good look at the mold-covered concrete walls, the water-damaged wooden ceiling, and the dusty, blood stained floor under her feet.

James was at the opposite end of the room, and he dropped the lightbulb's ball-bearing chain with a flourish. "I was beginning to think," he said nonchalantly, "That you'd forgotten all about me."

Batwoman dragged herself to her feet, sweeping her cape to the side to brush off the gray dust.

"I'm here now," she said softly. "So you don't need him. Let both boys go, and we can talk."

Her cousin tilted his head to the side, and clicked his tongue sympathetically. James tightened his grip on Dick, who let out a strangled moan. Her partner's eyes fluttered shut, and Barbara's heart skipped a few beats in her chest. If they were lucky, Dick wouldn't have any internal injuries. But she couldn't bank on that; this needed to end. Fast.

"Now, see," James said, "I think that the only way you and I can have a civilized conversation is if your pet circus boy is here to dispel your more…violent urges."

The way he grinned when he said it, slow and cold, made the hairs on the back of Barbara's neck prickle. She wet her dusty lips and said, carefully, "What do you mean? He doesn't need to—"

"Simple.  _Elementary,_ even." His glasses glinted, reflecting the dim light. "I let him leave this room, let you take all my leverage off the board…and you kill me."

That gave her pause. "No," she snapped. "I think you're confusing me with your rabid partner out there."

"Are you sure about that?" James smirked, and shook Dick a little, forcing her partner to open his eyes, and regain what little consciousness he had left. "Because  _that,_ dear Barbara, is the reason I've invited you to this little party tonight. And now that you're here, we're going to play a party game. Doesn't that sound fun?"

Barbara grit her teeth.

"Of course it does. Now. There's a few rules to this game. Number one? No masks."

James's boxcutter clicked, and he pressed the sharpened tip to Dick's larynx. His Adam's apple bobbed, but he offered the serial killer no resistance. Just let out a small, breathy sound that made Barbara's stomach lurch.

"I don't think," James crooned, "That I need to explain the penalty for  _breaking_ the rules."

So, slowly, Barbara reached up and unclipped her mask, sliding it off her face and into her glove. The chill air of the basement pressed against her skin, and she shuddered involuntarily. James's smile only widened.

"There. Isn't that better? Now I can see those beautiful blue Gordon eyes."

Her mouth twisted. "I'm  _flattered,"_ she growled.

"Oh, you should be. They're just one of the many things that run in our genes." He tilted his chin up, and the light flashed off his teeth. "Besides our obvious penchant for bloodshed, that is. But I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."

"I don't, actually." Her eyes roved over her cousin, as she searched for some sort of weakness. In his posture, in the way he held the blade to Dick's throat. Even his other hand, grasping a loaded pistol, but for whatever reason, he wasn't using it for his threats. It hung uselessly over his shoulder.

"Now. Back to the rules," James stated. "The way of the game is to ask questions…and answer honestly. We can even take turns if you'd like. I ask one, you ask one. But here's the catch. Rule number two, if you will. You don't answer honestly? Then I use my boxcutter. And I don't think your pretty boyfriend is stuffed with packing peanuts, is he?"

"James—"

"Do you understand?" he shouted, eyes wide. Tiny drops of saliva flew from his mouth, and Dick flinched a little.

Barbara squared her stance, and glowered. "Is that your first question?" she said, voice deadly calm.

He chortled, switching back to his calm, collected manner with eerie swiftness. James pressed the knife in deeper. Dick let out a sharp groan. "That's the spirit. Now. I suppose it's your turn."

"Fine." She took a step forward. "How did you hack into the BatComputer?"

At that, Dick's eyes shot open wide. Or, at least, as wide as the swelling would allow. James only grinned. "Let's just say that I have a friend who is…let's call it  _gifted,_ with technology. Moving on. What's—"

"So we're allowed to be as vague as we want?" Barbara interjected. "What's your friend's name?"

At that, James glowered. His voice took on a venomous tone as he said, "What did I say, cousin? One question at a time. Since I'm feeling generous, I'll refrain from slicing pretty boy's throat. For now."

She could make it to them in six large steps. If she ran, it would be three. Two seconds. Plus another three to jab at his throat with one hand and wrench his knife away with the other…and then she had to worry about the gun… Too much time. By the time she made her move, Dick would be dead on the floor.

"What is the name you've been calling yourself?" James demanded.

Was that all? Barbara could feel her shoulders loosen slightly. If she went for her belt, she mused, grabbed a gas pellet, then threw it on the floor—no, that wouldn't work. It was fast, definitely. But the room was too small, and there was no clear sign of ventilation. Meaning she'd have no time to go for her rebreather before she was rendered unconscious. Not to mention the danger of asphyxiating all three of them.

"Barbara Pennyworth to the public," she said, knowing that would be easy enough to verify. But James's hand twitched on the blade handle, so she added, "My family calls me Barbara Delphi."

James huffed. "No doubt a reference to the Pythia, or the Greek Oracle of Delphi, high priestess to the god Apollo. Good job, honesty-wise. But you're wrong on one count, dear cousin. Those flying rodent-loving imbeciles are  _not_ your family." A snakelike smile crept up his face. " _I am."_

"What was the hacker's name?" Barbara snapped, ignoring him.

"He goes by the name' Calculator'. The Shadows' answer to…well, you. Imagines himself to be the yang to the Oracle's yin. To  _your_ yin." James's mouth twisted. "But he is wrong. His intellect is nothing compared to ours. You and I, cousin? We are the two most brilliant minds on this planet, and with you by my side…" He let out a dry chuckle that made Barbara take a half-step back. "Just think of the havoc we could wreak."

"So you want me to…join you?" she demanded, fists curling at her sides. Indignation flared in her chest as she resisted the urge to start shouting.  _How_ many times had she heard that same &*%# line over the years? Poison Ivy, Catwoman (back in her less-than-legitimate days), Talia Al Ghul, Lex Luthor, and even %*&%^#&  _Killer Moth!_

James nodded. "Yes," he said with a smile. "You and I…we're like two branches cut from the same  _twisted_ family tree. The Gordons and the Keans. Intertwined for centuries, and culminating in the two greatest minds in modern history! And our legacy—the thing that ties our families together—is blood. And, oh, how we  _love_ spilling blood! The feel, the shine, the color, the smell." His eyes fluttered shut and he inhaled deeply through his nose. "There's not another feeling like it. And  _you._ You're the only one who  _understands_."

Barbara noticed it, then, for the first time. She'd seen the same thing only a few times before, in only the most disturbed, darkened inmates of Arkham Asylum. It was all in the eyes—the darkness, the sheer  _soullessness._ And she couldn't help the shiver that trailed up her spine.

Because this man couldn't be played like other wannabe psychos. There would be no talking him down, no reasoning with him. Not unless she played _his_ game.

"You're  _insane,"_ Barbara hissed. She took a full step back.

"Is that right?" His grin, his whole demeanor, took on a darker, sharper edge. "Well, I suppose it takes one to know one. Let me ask you my next question. To prove it."

He pressed the tip into Dick's throat, and a dark trickle of blood traced down his neck. He let out a pained gasp, and Barbara stiffened. James only laughed.

"Alright, cousin. Answer this. How did it feel…to kill Roman Sionis? The Black Mask?"

Barbara felt her limbs, her blood, her mind, all turn to stone. Because the  _only_ person besides her that knew…was in Wayne Manor helping Alfred to look after Damian's new kitten at that very moment. And Selina had sworn to her that she'd keep her secret and never tell a soul.

But the worst part was Dick. He didn't gasp in shock, or gape, or anything. He just glowered at the psychopath holding him at knifepoint with a dismissive frown. He wouldn't believe that of her. How could he? Dick Grayson had known Barbara for too long. He trusted her. He didn't think she could be  _capable_ of anything like that.

But he was wrong.

"I—" she gasped, glancing from James's dead eyes to Dick's trusting ones.

"Answer," her cousin snapped. " _Honestly."_

"I don't know—"

James thrust the knife in, and blood seeped from the wound. Dick's eyes went wide. Barbara let out a scream, diving forward. But something in James's body language forced her to freeze, and stare at both of them in horror as her partner let out a weak whimper.

"Oh, don't worry. I missed his major artery, so your favorite toy shouldn't bleed out  _quite_ yet." James's tone was cold. "But please, for his sake, don't lie to my face again."

A pause, then he continued. "A word of advice, though, cousin? If you're going to kill someone, don't do it somewhere that can be seen from any window in Arkham! We inmates aren't exactly known for keeping secrets!" He let out a high, cruel laugh.

"James," she pleaded. Already, she could feel pricks of moisture at the corners of her stinging eyes.

He twisted the knife, and Dick screamed, knees buckling.

"Fine!" she cried, lifting her hands. "I killed the Black Mask! I pushed him off a twelve-story building and left him to die!" A sob ripped out of her throat. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Dick's eyes were glazed over from the agony, but they were still searching her face. James made an undecipherable sound low in his throat, and pressed his chin into the crook of her partner's neck. "How did it feel, Barbara?" he crooned quietly. Almost musically. "Remember to be honest."

Her jaw clenched so tightly that she could almost feel it cracking. "It felt…right," she forced out through her teeth. "Justified."

"But also—?"

Barbara's jaw was about to shatter. "Exhilarating," she whispered.

His face lit up, then. Like a light had been lit in his broken mind. His head lifted off of Dick's shoulder, and her partner stared at her with open shock.

"I knew it," James said, so softly that she almost couldn't hear, "I knew you were like me."

"Yes, James," she gasped. Tears flowed down her face. "I am. I'm just like you. For so long, I thought nobody would ever understand, but here you are. And you just… _know."_

She met Dick's eyes, and, slowly, pressed her forefinger to her thumb. His swollen eyes lit up with understanding, and his shoulders relaxed a little. It was a sign Bruce often used when giving them silent orders. Essentially:  _Build rapport. Then wait for them to let their guard down._

"Yes." James's eyes were lit up with madness and joy. A combination that shouldn't have ever been possible. "And what about the Joker thugs? Just a few nights ago? Tell me about that! Did you enjoy feeling their hot blood all over your hands? Did they beg you for mercy?" He shut his eyes and shuddered gleefully. "Didn't you just  _love_ the sound of their screams?"

At that, she forced a laugh. If she was going to get in this psychopath's head, she'd have to make him think he'd won. It was the only chink in his armor—that need for someone to understand.

"Yes!" she cried, still laughing. "You should have seen it, James. His fingers all twisted and broken. The others' missing eye. And, oh &*#, that sound they made! It was  _incredible!_ "

Barbara quieted her internal screaming and forced herself to be patient. She wanted to demand that James release Dick and send him over. But the minute she did that, their rapport would fall apart…and Dick would be dead.

So she had to wait. It had to be James's idea, to let her partner go.

"Yes, yes, yes!" He tipped back his head and let out a laugh that was almost Joker-like. It sent goosebumps prickling up Barbara's arms under the Kevlar.

Dick was watching her. Carefully. Almost  _too_ carefully.

She met his eyes, and hoped he could read her silent apology.

James dropped him, and Dick landed on the concrete with a sharp grunt of pain. One of his hands crept up to his neck, stemming the flow of blood with his palm. It seeped between his fingers, black and glistening. Barbara felt herself jerk forwards slightly to go to him, but she forced herself into indifference. She had to ignore her boyfriend bleeding out on the floor, or everything would go to #$%%.

"Let's go, Barbara!" James cackled. "Me and you. We'll paint this city red. And when we're done, we'll gut anyone who tries to stop us!"

She grinned. "Perfect."

Barbara took one step forwards. Two. On the third step, she palmed a batarang. The sharp tip bit through her glove, and she grit her teeth. On the fifth step, her arm came up, with the weapon grasped between her index and middle finger.

But she never got the chance to hit the mark.

The glint of the gun in the dim light made her flinch. Hard. The batarang stuck into the wall several feet away from James, and his grin died like a blown-out candle.

And then the pistol went off.

Barbara gasped, expecting the searing pain in her abdomen. Expected to fall to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. Just like before.

But there was no agony. No fire in her center where the bullet should have penetrated.

She lowered her hand, gaping wide-eyed at her cousin.

His eyes were dark. His face was darker. He opened his mouth and said, with a hate-filled whisper,

"To think. I almost believed you."

And on the floor, Dick gave a strangled gasp.

 

 

* * *

 

 

" _NO!"_ she screamed.

Barbara dove forward. Her kneecaps cracked against the concrete, and she lifted Dick's prone body off the ground. Her partner let out a dry, cracking gasp when she turned him over, and Barbara almost lost it right then.

The wound in his chest was gaping. The bullet had gone through right between his shoulder blades, and come out through his sternum, leaving a spurting, bloody crater from a destructive exit wound.

Her eyes were impossibly wide as she placed a palm on Dick's cheek. Bruce's training was coming back to her in flashes.

_Gunshot wound to the heart…approximately four minutes until brain death…seven if Dick could keep his breathing controlled…if he didn't bleed out first…_

James was gone.  _Escaped._ He must have taken another unseen exit.

Any other time, Barbara would have actually cared.

"Hold still," she muttered breathlessly. She placed both gloved hands over the wound, and blood burbled up through her fingers. Panic surged in her chest, and she pressed down harder. "Leslie's clinic is only a few miles from here. We can still—"

Dick's breath rattled. He reached up, and wrapped his fingers around her wrist. "No. Batmobile isn't… _hk…_ fast enough."

Barbara couldn't see. Her eyes were bleary from tears, and he hurried to blink them away. She pressed down harder, then—

_Wait! No chest compressions…that'd only finish the job…stem the flow, Barbara…stem the flow…_

She reached for her cape. But Dick shook his head.

"H-hey," he croaked, trying for a weak smile. A dribble of blood trickled out the corner of his mouth and he coughed once. Twice. "F-four minutes, remember? I w-wanna make 'em count."

The tears in her eyes spilled over. "Save your air, and we can make it seven," she gasped.

With one fluid motion, she ripped the hem off his soaking t-shirt—the only dry part—and balled it in her fist. She pressed it to his chest, and slipped off her cape.

While she worked, he was smiling up at her. "You're my favorite p-person in the world," he murmured. "I c-can't…believe I was so lucky."

He was delusional. From the pain, or maybe the depleting oxygen. Barbara tied the cape around his chest, compressing the wound. Stemming the flow. But it wasn't enough, and even Dick knew that. His breathing shuddered a bit as he finished another round of coughing. His blood spotted her hands, but he reached up, and grasped one of them.

"You make me s-strong, Babs." He tried to squeeze her hand, but was too weak.

A sob wrenched out of her throat. "Stop wasting your air, you  _idiot!"_ she whispered, sweeping her hair out of her face. Her fingers scrambled to undo her belt. There was a pill in one of the pockets. One that would put the user into metabolic shock. It would buy them time. To get to Leslie's, or maybe even Gotham General. "You're gonna be fine, we just have to—"

"Babs."

She paused, glancing down at him with teary eyes. Dick was looking at her, and the look on his face was so resigned, so peaceful, so… _loving._ She felt her hand drop away from her belt. Barbara knew then, even if she didn't want to accept it.

"I love you," he whispered. "I love you…more than anything."

Barbara sobbed, gasping for air. "Dick, no."

"I'm sorry."

" _Please."_ She cried. Begged. "You can't do this to me. Not now. Not after—!"

He shuddered a little, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. The words died in her throat, as she leaned in, searching his face desperately. But then, they opened, and he tried to smile at her again. Offer her some little reassurance.

"C-can I ask you something?"

She shook her head. Slowly at first, then faster. Listlessly. "No. You aren't doing this. You are not leaving me, Richard John Grayson. I won't let that happen."

Barbara reached for her belt. Dick's hand squeezed hers again.

"A-are you sure?" he asked softly. His voice was barely a whisper now. "C-cause I've been meaning to ask f-for a while."

"Dick," she whimpered. " _Please."_

He wheezed a little, and tipped his head back. Like he was steeling himself. "Babs. Will you m—"

She wrenched her hand out of his grip, and placed both palms on either side of his face. Her lips were on his before he had the chance to finish. His lips were cracked and salty from his blood. But she didn't care. She couldn't hear what he had to say. If she did, it would be too real. Too final. That he was…

The kiss lasted seconds. Then Dick pulled away.

"Heh," he breathed. "#$%% of a t-time to int-t-terrupt."

"Don't go," she begged, barely able to see him through her tears. A hole in her chest ripped open as she realized what was about to happen, and she let out a shaky, breathy wail. "I'm not…I c-can't…"

"Please. You know you…c-can."

He was panting now. Slow. Rhythmic. His eyes never left hers as he took breath after shaky breath.

"I love you," she whispered, voice breaking.

Dick smiled, bright and beaming. There was more and more time between each exhale. He was out of time, but he'd never looked happier. "G-good. Otherwise…I'd have to…return the—"

He breathed out, one last heavy sigh, and his chest stopped rising. His eyes glazed over. His head listed to the side as the last word died in his throat.

And she knew.

"Dick," she cried, eyes brimming. " _Dick?"_

She knew.

Barbara pressed a bloody gauntlet over her mouth and screamed. She screamed so loud that she could feel her lungs quake in her chest as she pressed her forehead over Dick's heart. Her teeth sunk into the Kevlar. Her jaw came unhinged.

She screamed and sobbed and begged and  _demanded_ that he come back. That he couldn't leave her. That he couldn't  _do this!_

When she had nothing, she had Dick Grayson. Her partner. Her better half.

A thousand memories flooded her mind. Dick's smile. His easy laugh. The way he could turn anything into a joke, then switch to complete seriousness at the slightest notice. The way his eyes lit up when he looked at his family, and that sound—that stupidly giddy, joy-filled sound—he made when he flew through the air on a wire. His favorite cereal…The time they taught Jason how to ride a cycle…That time he fell asleep on the couch with Tim during a horror movie…The time he showed Steph how to do a handstand…his voice when he read Damian bed-time stories no matter how much the kid protested…the time—back when they were just stupid little pre-teens—when they'd stolen the Batmobile to go joy-riding, and Bruce grounded them both for a week… How he was a leader, even when he never wanted to be…never wanted to…to…

It felt like an eternity. Time seemed to stand still. But slowly, after years and centuries of wailing, she pulled herself upright. Her breathing slowed from ragged and erratic. She clawed the hair out of her face, ignoring how the strands stuck to her damp cheeks, and heaved a shaky sigh.

And all she could feel was anger.

No. Not anger.

_Rage._

"No," she hissed, under her breath.

Somewhere behind her, Jason's fist rapped on the door. "Babs!" came his muffled voice, "Red Robin and I have Damian! Let's go!"

Tim's voice. A million miles away. "Where's the switch? There's gotta be some way to get in there—"

She looked down at Dick. Her hand weighed a thousand pounds as she lifted it up towards his face. For a moment, she cradled his head in her hand. Then, her fingers brushed over his eyelids, sliding them shut.

"No," she said again. Firmly. Resolved. "Not like this, Wingnut."

Barbara looked up. Her eyes swept the back wall. Searching for any kind of sign that—

There.

A sliver of light, just barely visible through the clumps of dust and dried paint. Her finger pressed against her belt buckle, and there was a soft beep.

With a sharp inhale, she steeled herself, and slid both arms under her partner. One to support his neck. The other to support his knees. Then, she forced herself to her feet.

It was slow. Dick Grayson was heavy in life, and even heavier in death. But she managed.

Barbara kicked out, and her boot thudded against the wall. At first, there was nothing. So she tried again. And again. And  _again._

On the fourth try, she heard a tiny click. The wall slid open, and the night air hit her face like a slap.

She could see the moonlight curving on the surface of the Batmobile, summoned by the signal on her belt. As she stepped out into the dark alley, she dared one last glance down at her partner.

"Not like this," she said firmly. A promise.

The Batmobile roared to life.

 


	17. Desperate Times

 

If you would've told Tim three weeks ago that Jason would be managing the Family singlehandedly (not counting the help of Alfred and Selina, of course), he would've died laughing. Giving  _Jason Todd_ any kind of responsibility was like handing an M-16 to a chimpanzee. And then giving that chimpanzee a double shot espresso. Right?

Apparently not.

Right now, Jason was standing over by the hospital room's door. His voice was lowered as he spoke into a phone with a somber frown, and Tim only glanced up from the book in his hands long enough to catch the tired droop of his shoulders. His older brother looked…was there a right word for it? Stressed, maybe? Tired? None of the words that came to Tim's mind seemed to cover the bags under Jason's eyes, and the almost-terrified way he kept glancing around the room.

It had only been a day and a half since they'd squared off with James Gordon Junior and his savage partner. Tim had joined the fight partway through, just in time to see Babs dive through a hidden door in the wall. But there'd been no time to offer his sister any backup; the strange old man threatening Damian had been top priority.

Besides, they'd figured, Babs and Dick could manage some pansy trench-coat wearing wannabe, couldn't they? No problem.  _No chance_ of that going wrong.

The craziest thing had definitely been when Jason had ripped back his cowl and shouted,  _"Do you know who I am, %*^#*!%* &$%? I'm Jason Peter Todd, your %*&!^#& grandson!" _Right before he punched that S.O.B right in the face.

Tim guessed he had seen crazier things. None that came to mind, right off the bat, but still…

Once the Triple B Killer (or at least one half of the murderous set) was in custody, Jason and Tim got to work on the wall, trying desperately to find a way in. Whilst simultaneously trying to keep Damian conscious. The poor kid had been through the meatgrinder, and they'd worked fast, so that they'd have enough time to get him to the hospital.

But when they'd finally gotten the door open? No one was inside. Tim could tell instantly that the room must have been James Gordon's own private 'kill-room', based on the old bloodstains all over the place. But there was enough  _new_ blood that his stomach had twisted itself into a Gordian knot. While Tim was busy taking a sample with his glove's sensors, Jason was stalking around the room.

"Red," he'd said, voice low. "Look."

When Tim had looked up, he'd seen a blood-soaked remnant of a 9-millimeter round in one of his brother's hands. The other held up a black bat's mask.  _Batwoman's_ mask.

"Whatever happened," Jason told him somberly, "It wasn't good."

"We'll find them," Tim had said.

But now, sitting at Damian's bedside while Jason paced back and forth, and while the youngest brother was staring up at him expectantly…Well. Tim wasn't quite sure where they were even supposed to start.

"Drake," Damian rasped, eyes narrowed. "If you would please continue?"

Tim jumped a little, then glanced back down at the open book clutched in his hands. The neatly typed words swirled on the creamy pages, and he blinked to clear his vision. Then, he cleared his throat, and leaned back.

"Right. Uh…let's see. Where…?"

"Your last word was 'overlooked'," Damian supplied. The kid's voice was as thin as a sheet of tissue paper, and Tim winced when he glanced up and saw the bruises blooming on his brother's skin. Not to mention the spiderwebs of stiches crisscrossing over the bruises.

"Okay." Tim cleared his throat again with a cough. "'I am afraid, my dear Watson, that most of your conclusions were erroneous. When I said that you stimulated me I meant, to be frank, that in noting your fallacies I was occasionally guided towards the truth. Not that you are entirely wrong in this instance—"

The door flew open, and Jason jumped back with a shout.

Stephanie plowed through the doorway, face set into a firm expression. Clearly on a mission. In one hand, she was clutching one of those red hospital-gift-shop teddy bears with the words FEEL THE HEAL machine-stitched on the belly.

"Dami!" she gasped, dashing forwards. She moved to give the youngest a bear hug, but Jason snagged the back of her shirt before she got the chance.

"Kid's got internal injuries, babe," Jason said, voice low, but gentle. "I wouldn't touch him quite yet."

Steph pouted, and settled for setting the bear on Damian's stomach carefully. He stared at the stuffed animal for a few seconds, then blinked up at his older sister.

"…thank you, Brown. This is a…thoughtful gift."

"Well," she said, waving a hand, "I  _tried_  to get Alfred-the-Cat in here, but the nurse lady said 'no, this is a hospital for crying out loud, now get that animal out of here before I call security!'" Steph's face and voice pinched as she imitated a shrewish medical worker. "So. Y'know what an upstanding rule-follower I am, right? So instead of  _that,_ I got the bear."

Damian blinked again. One of his hands wrapped around the bear's arm.

"Aaaannnddd fine. Who am I kidding? I brought the stupid cat in anyway." She smirked, and opened up her purse. Alfred-the-Cat mewled as she picked him up by the scruff of his neck and set him down on Damian's chest. The tiny feline crawled up towards the kid's chin, and Damian's eyes lit up.

"Thank you, Brown," he said, much more sincere this time.

"Aw, #$%%," Jason muttered. Then, he sneezed.

Tim folded down the corner of the page, and shut the book carefully. So much for the Hound of the Baskervilles. "Steph," he said, raising one eyebrow, "Weren't you supposed to be watching the 'guests'?"

She clicked her tongue. "If you are  _implying,_ Timothy, that I left those two to their own devices, then  _no._ I brought them in, too. The nurse lady was a  _ton_ more chill about that than the cat. Especially when she gotta load of Nightshade. Go figure."

As if on cue, Terry and Nightshade poked their heads in.

"Is it alright if we come in?" Nightshade asked carefully.

When Damian caught sight of the older man—now without a mask—his face paled a little more. He tried to sit up straighter in the bed, but winced. "Who—?"

"Terry McGinnis," Terry supplied, smiling broadly. He led his older partner into the room, despite the man's obvious reluctance, and waved a showy hand his way. "And this is Damian Wayne. But I'm guessing you already knew that."

Nightshade and Damian regarded each other for a few moments. Sizing each other up. Literally, in a way. Tim resisted the urge to gape, or maybe demand further explanation. He'd figured the mysterious older Nightwing-wannabe had to be someone they knew, anyways.

Steph, though, didn't hold anything back.

" _What!?"_ she squealed. Her fingers curled over the edge of the hospital bed's railing as she hunched her shoulders. "You're…!? But…but,  _you're…?"_

She glanced back and forth between the two Damians with perfectly round eyes. They exchanged a glance.

"Hn," Nightshade said easily, "She doesn't change much, through the years."

Damian sighed, and sunk back into his pillow. " _Wonderful."_

They both smiled, then, and shared a nod of understanding. A spark of terror ignited in Tim's chest.

_Two_ Damians.

_Yikes._

"Steph," Jason said. He snapped his fingers, bringing them all to attention. It was such a  _Babs_ move, that it made Tim blink in confusion. "How are the vultures taking the news?"

Steph straightened a little, and shrugged. "Uh. Your guys's plan worked. Having you dress up as Batman and bring out the kidnapper guy was enough to throw the press off. Vulture Lady in particular, since Dick is still…" She frowned, and glanced away.

Tim knew that Dick and Damian's disappearances had taken a heavy toll on Stephanie for the past few days. They'd gotten Damian back, of course, but with Dick—and now  _Babs—_ still missing…he wasn't really sure how she was taking it all.

"But what about you?" she demanded, looking back up at Jason. "Any word on our people?"

Jason deflated. "I called the Team. They haven't seen anything. But I guess we keep trying until something turns up. In the meantime, everybody's gonna have to gear up for patrol. Nightshade and Bat—uh, Terry, too. If you guys're game."

His voice was authoritative. Tired, but commanding. Any other time, those words coming from  _Jason_ of all people might have earned a few snide ' _who put you in charge'_ comments. (There used to be a commonly used phrase, ' _who died and made you Batman?_ ', but they'd stopped using it for…obvious reasons.) No one offered up any dissent this time around. They only nodded.

"Except you, kiddo." Jason nodded in Damian's direction. "You're in here for a few weeks. Or until we can get Zatanna on the line. Doctor's orders."

Damian scowled. But nodded. The poor kid was probably too wiped to do much more than that, and too proud to say so.

Jason bit his lower lip, nodding back. "Awesome. Now. Let's go find those two &*%^$&^ idiots."

Tim frowned. "That's not exactly fair. We don't know what happened to them, Jay."

"Whatever, Timbo. When we do find them, I'm gonna kill them." He scowled, muttering under his breath, "Should know better than to get themselves kidnapped or transported back to the stone ages or whatever the #$%% it is, this time around."

"Well, we can't—"

"All I'm saying," Jason snapped, "Is that they'd better have a &*#% good excuse!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

Most of the things on Barbara's long list of stupid decisions could be traced back to her Batgirl days. It was a simpler time. Back when the worst things she'd done were putting itching powder in the Batman and Robin suits, and jerry-rigging a makeshift radio out of the radio  _already in_ the Batmobile. (Bruce took it well. He only grounded her for a month. And made her and Dick listen to ABBA on CD until they eventually found a replacement.)

But stealing a jet? That definitely made the list. (To be fair, it wasn't 'stealing' so much as 'borrowing with the intent to return or replace'. She even left a little ' _IOU one C-225'_ note.)

After she'd disabled the tracking feature, and switched to autopilot, she made her way to the back of the jet. Where she'd laid out her partner on one of the reclined seats. She'd removed her cape from around his chest, and draped it over him like a shroud.

With a heavy sigh, she sank into the seat across the aisle, and gave her partner a long glance.

_Almost there, Dick,_ she told him, silently.

Then Barbara pulled up her wrist computer, already typing out a message to Jason.

**THIS IS BABS. WE'RE SAFE. JUST FOLLOWING A POTENTIAL LEAD, SO MAINTAIN RADIO SILENCE. MAKE SURE TIM GETS TO BED ON TIME AND STEPH DOESN'T EAT TOO MUCH BEFORE BED—**

She winced. Then erased the last line.

**BUSINESS AS USUAL UNTIL WE GET BACK. BE BACK SOON.**

Barbara's finger hovered over the SEND button. But then, she backspaced and deleted the last sentence, replacing it with  **WE'LL BOTH BE BACK SOON.**

She'd only barely pressed send when an incoming call notification lit up her screen. From Zatanna.

Barbara slammed the dismiss button. She'd thought of asking Zatanna for help—under any other circumstance, she knew the magician would do anything she could. But then Barbara had remembered a conversation she'd once had over drinks with Zee and Constantine. About how people brought back from the other side with magic were…different. Not to mention the rituals and prep that went into such a complex spell.

And Barbara didn't have the time for prep and rituals and side-effects. She couldn't handle the risks of Dick coming back as anything other than…himself.

She glanced over at him. Then dismissed another call from Artemis. Then M'gann. Then Dina.

Barbara turned off her notifications. And opened a video call.

As she waited for it to ring, she steeled herself, squaring her shoulders and setting her jaw. Barbara was more or less presentable. She'd scrubbed the blood off her face and hands in the plane’s onboard restroom, and swept her hair back from her face. Even so, she felt a pang of nervousness.

When speaking to this man, appearances were important.  _Presentation_ was everything.

Even so, she wasn't fully prepared for the face that greeted her when the call finally went through.

The man stared up at her through narrowed eyes, emerald green from centuries of bathing in the restorative waters of the Lazarus Pit. His hair was graying at the edges, and the downward curve of his savage frown made the knot of uncertainty in Barbara's stomach tighten. Ra's Al Ghul regarded her coldly, and said, smoothly, "Ah. The Oracle. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?"

Barbara tipped up her chin slightly. "I hope I don't call at a bad time, رأس الغول ."

"Please," Al Ghul sniffed. "There is no need for that. What is it you need?"

Her voice came out clear, calm, and authoritative. Bruce would have been proud. Though maybe not of what she was about to ask. "I'm coming to collect on a favor, Ra's." She paused, swallowing the lump in her throat. "I need the Lazarus Pit."

"Hn." He snarled up at her, and Barbara's jaw clenched. "I will instruct my people, then, to  _refrain_ from shooting you out of the air, فتاة صغيرة. Until we next meet."

"I look forward to it."

The call ended with a beep, and Barbara heaved a sigh.

"Well, Wingnut," she muttered, shooting a glance in the shroud's direction. "Here we go."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Barbara strode through the front doors of Ra's Al Ghul's compound like she owned the place. Chin tipped up, head held high, and spine straight as a ramrod. She wore no mask, but that wasn't necessary in Nanda Parbat, where the identities of everyone wearing a bat or bird on their chest was already common knowledge.

She cradled Dick in her arms as the silent guards led her in the direction of Ra's' 'office'.

It was decorated more as a throne room than anything else. Jade and gold leaf as far as the eye could see, and high, stretching glass windows that looked out on the mountainous terrain. Right now, she could see the night sky through those panels, all stars and empty blackness. The only light came from the hanging lamps that lined the edges of the room, casting off warm, welcoming light that didn't seem to fit the rest of the décor.

And waiting for her at the edge of the room were Ra's Al Ghul and his daughter Talia.

At the sound of her footsteps, both demons turned. And gave her their full, cold and indifferent acknowledgement. Barbara couldn't help but notice Talia's icy stare, and returned it with a heated glare. Ra's hummed low in his throat, and both women turned to face the Demon's Head.

"وحي," he said stiffly. 'Oracle'. Her name.

"Ra's." She inclined her head out of some fabricated idea of respect. "I go by 'Batwoman' now, actually."

Talia sniffed, throwing her shoulders back. "Please. You think yourself fit to take my Beloved's place? A worthy replacement? At best, you are a pathetic charlatan. A  _child_ playing at dress-up, when—"

"Daughter," Ra's snapped, eyes lighting with annoyance. "Hold your tongue."

Talia reared back, then inclined her head. "Apologies, baba."

He turned back to Barbara, all ice again. With a jerk of his head, he glanced down at the wrapped body in her arms. Barbara laid Dick down carefully on the floor, arms shivering a little from the sudden lack of weight, and unwrapped the part of her cape covering his face. In the hours since his death, he'd already gone stiff as rigor mortis had started to set in. And there was an almost blue-ish tint to his lips and skin, now that there was no heartbeat to circulate the blood through his veins.

His eyes were shut gently, lashes fanned over his cheeks. Dick almost seemed at peace.

But Barbara wasn't willing to lose him. Not yet.

"Ah," Ra's said, nodding his head thoughtfully. "Grayson. I see, now, why you were so desperate as to come to me for help. When you wouldn't even do the same for your teacher. The Detective."

"Why is that, I wonder?" Talia queried coldly, crossing her arms over her chest. "You laid your mentor to rest in an earthen grave, and did little else but mourn. And yet, when your  _own_ lover is taken from you, you come crawling to us.  _Begging_ for a way to return him to life." She snarled. "Why Grayson? Why not Bruce Wayne?"

Barbara got to her feet, and resisted the urge to say something that would get her skewered on the end of an ornamental katana. Instead, she settled for something a little safer. "My reasons are my own, Talia. And you  _will_ let me use the Pit."

"And why, pray tell, is that?" Ra's demanded. He stared down his nose at her, and Barbara bit the side of her cheek. "Watch your tone, child. I may still send you to join your lover in the oblivion of death."

Barbara scowled. "Our deal—"

"—was fulfilled." Ra's sneered. "You gave me  _invaluable_ information for the League of Assassins and Shadows alike during your…paraplegic days."

Barbara almost winced. Had she supplied Ra's Al Ghul with sensitive information? Absolutely not. But she  _had_ provided him with coding, programs, locations of abandoned League safehouses, and other seemingly useful tidbits of info. At the time, it had seemed like a great idea to have the Demon's Head in her debt. To get on Ra's Al Ghul's good side, so that when the time came…

Well. The time had come now.

"I helped you," she snapped. "Now I ask that you help  _me."_

Ra's let out a dry laugh, and took a few steps forward. Now, he stood only a few steps away. Barbara's eyes drifted to the sheathed sword he kept at his side. One quick, fluid movement, was all it would take to send her head rolling across the floor.

"Oh, but my dear girl, I  _did_ help you." His small smile was toxic. "In exchange for that information, do you not remember? The Japanese scientists who were able to fix you? To put a chip in your head that would allow you to stand, walk, run? You seemed so eager, when I presented you with that generous gift. And now you come into my home, demanding more?"

She wet her lips. At her sides, her fingers curled into fists. "One favor for  _months_ of information brokering? Ra's, you can't just—"

He put up a hand and the words died in her throat.

"My answer, dear Barbara," he said slowly, "Is a resounding  _no._ Take your corpse. Bury it in a plot near the Detective, if you so please. But leave now, before you—"

"What do you want, Ra's?" Barbara interjected. The desperate cadence of her voice cut through the air like a razorblade, and even Talia's well-kept eyebrows crept upwards. Ra's' nostrils flared in anger.  _No one_ interrupted the Demon's Head. In any other situation—under  _any_ other circumstances—she would nod respectfully, apologize, and then leave before her head was put on a pike. But this was different. This was  _Dick._ Her hands rose up towards her chest as she cried, " _Please._ I'll give you anything _._ I'll  _do_ anything! Just…bring him back to me."

He regarded her coldly. The flames in the room's hanging lamps danced across his face, making the man appear even  _more_ demon-like, and Barbara resisted the shudder that tried to crawl across her skin. Ra's Al Ghul's eyes stared into her own, as if he were searching for something.

And whatever it was, he seemed to have found it. A slow serpent-like smile crept up his face.

"Very well," he purred.

Talia's arms dropped. "Father!" she cried, indignant.

"Hush, child." Al Ghul stepped closer. Now only a few feet away from her. "The  _Batwoman_ wants to strike a deal. I am more than willing to oblige. But as for her request…well."

Barbara's hands lowered. She opened her mouth to speak, but the Demon's Head continued, smirking.

"She desires to make use of our Lazarus Pit. To restore her lover to life. But a life restored requires a life taken in exchange."

At that, Talia's eyes widened a fraction. As the slow smirk appeared on her face, Barbara could definitely see the family resemblance. The bloodlust. The cruelty. She almost shivered.

But…

A life in exchange…

Barbara swallowed hard, then locked eyes with Ra's Al Ghul. Her hand lifted of its own accord, and she wrapped her gloved fingers around the hilt of the demon's sheathed sword. With the smooth, sliding sound of steel on steel, she slowly eased the blade out. The man made no move to stop her, just clasped his hands behind his back with an easy sneer. He knew what she was doing, just like he knew that the life she intended to take wasn't his.

Barbara stepped carefully over Dick's body, coming face to face with the head of the League of Assassins. It stung her pride a little, but slowly, never breaking eye contact, she lowered herself onto to her knees. A hand reached up to brush the hair off of her neck. She held up the other—the one clasping the sword, with its razor tip pointed downward—and offered it to Ra's solemnly.

"A life for a life," she said, voice hollow. "I give mine. Bring him back…and kill me."

She was expendable. The others, her family, they could keep going without her. They'd done it before, when she'd left Gotham to be with her Birds in Cormorant. They'd done it right after Bruce's death, when she'd undergone the surgery and therapy that had put her out of commission for months.

But during that time, it had been  _Dick_ that had kept the family together. Kept them all sane. When Barbara was learning how to use her legs again, he was jumping off high-rises with Robin or showing Batgirl how to talk down raging psychopaths.  _He_  was the one the family couldn't stand to lose, because he was the leader. The  _rightful_ heir to Bruce's mantle. Their brother. Their leader.

Not her.

Talia was right. At best, she was just an extra mask and cape, trying and  _failing_ to live up to her mentor's legacy.

Losing Barbara? The Bats would mourn, but they'd recover. They could continue the mission, the crusade. Gotham didn't need a Batwoman as much as it needed a Batman, anyways. But losing Dick? They'd never recover.

_She_ would never recover. Barbara Delphi would not be able to survive without Dick Grayson. But maybe Dick Grayson could go on without Barbara Delphi.

So really, it was no choice at all.

The Al Ghuls' low, cruel laughter made her lift her head. Talia's head was thrown back. Ra's' sneer sent a shiver up her spine.

When he recovered, he fixed his demonic eyes on her and said, smiling, "Oh, child. We don't want  _your_ life. Pray tell, what fun would that be?" His shoulders shook with one last low chuckle. "No. I think not."

Barbara straightened, and climbed back to her feet. "Then what do you want?" she demanded through her teeth.

Talia smirked, ignoring Barbara completely as she turned to Ra's. Father and daughter shared a long glance. "The Destroyer, I think, baba," she said smoothly. "The assassiness has grown to be far too strong willed. Perhaps someone to remind her of her place?"

"Mmm." Ra's seemed to mull that over. He turned, and glanced out the window at the starry sky beyond. His feet carried him to the edges of the room as he surveilled his domain. His daughter joined him, and the two shared several quick glances. And for a few moments, the Al Ghuls were silent, sharing some nonverbal conversation that Batwoman was unable and unequipped to understand. Her fists clenched and unclenched at her sides.

Then finally, Ra's turned. His slitted green eyes glittered dangerously as he regarded Barbara. Then, smiling slightly, he said, "A duel. To the death."

Talia seemed absolutely delighted. "A life for your lover's."

Barbara wasn't sure what difference it made, dying at the hands of one of Ra's' assassins instead of at the end of the Demon Head's blade. Perhaps the Al Ghuls wanted entertainment. Or maybe killing her was beneath Ra's Al Ghul. She wasn't sure, but she was willing to play their game. She squared her shoulders. "Fine. But you'll heal him?"

Ra's clicked his tongue, and stepped back towards her. His emerald cape whished behind him, as soft as his movements. "If you prevail against the opponent of our choosing, then yes, my dear. We will bring your beloved Grayson back from the grave."

Barbara's shoulders tensed. The tone of his voice sent shivers of uneasiness crawling over her skin. "And if I lose?"

Talia's head reared back again as she let out a small chirp of laughter. Ra's continued, eyes narrowing.

"Please. Obviously, there is a penalty for losing my dear. Besides, of course, your life." He stepped closer once again, this time right on top of her. She could see the rise and fall of his chest, just inches away from hers, and carefully, she dared to look up into his ancient eyes. "Obviously," he continued, breath blasting her in the face and filling her nose with the smell of cloves. "If you are not victorious, we will not bother to bring your lover back to life."

"Why?" she demanded, mouth twisting into a snarl. "What difference is it supposed to make? Either way, you get your pound of flesh!"

Talking back to Ra's wasn't the stupidest thing she'd ever done, maybe. But it definitely made her list.

So she wasn't really surprised when his backhand cracked across her cheek.

Barbara staggered, but recovered quickly. Out of instinct, a batarang slid into her hand. When she straightened, and turned back to the demons, however, she hesitated.

Ra's Al Ghul held the tip of his katana inches away from her throat. Talia herself held a wicked-looking dagger in her left hand, glowering darkly at Barbara. There was no hesitation or uncertainty in their stance. These were not Gotham City Rogues. She couldn't read these two, and she couldn't trick, convince, or force them to back down. There would be no disarming them, and they wouldn't miss a beat when they plunged the sharpened tips of their blades into her heart and throat.

Barbara swallowed.

"Listen closely, girl," Ra's snarled. "You came to us, demanding a favor that you are not entitled to in the  _slightest."_ The last word hissed out of his throat, and the tip of his blade pressed against Barbara's trachea. "So you will show me the proper respect. You will  _thank_ me for my patience, and beg for my mercy. I expect you to weep out of gratitude that I don't cut you down where you stand, but instead, offer you a fair bargain that will give you the chance to bring your lover back  _and_ sate your bloodlust."

"Bloodlust?" Barbara demanded, voice weak. "I don't—"

"Please. Don't insult us by feigning ignorance." Talia's eyes narrowed further.

"We can see it in your eyes," Ra's finished. His snarl took on a more triumphant edge as his green irises flickered in the lamplight. "You may pretend and pose all that you like, my dear—"

Barbara took a step back. The air caught in her throat.

"—but there is blood on your hands. And you want  _more._ " Ra's lowered his blade, and slid it into its sheath. His shoulders and posture relaxed slightly, though his daughter's stayed watchfully tense. "I am showing you great generosity, by not slaying you for your insolence. So kneel. Show me your gratitude."

Barbara took another step back, over Dick's prone body. Her knees shook a little, but she stayed upright, squaring her shoulders and levelling a fierce glare at the Demon's Head.

"I don't think so," she said through her teeth.

She expected anger. But Barbara saw a hint of respect in Ra's Al Ghul's eyes.

At least, before he plunged blade blade into her belly.

White hot pain exploded in her midsection, and Barbara screamed.

Her kneecaps clacked against the marble floor, and her fingers twisted around the slick steel of the weapon, shaking. Even through the gloves, she could feel the heat of her own blood pumping out over her hands and onto the ground. In the dim light, it seemed black.

Over Batwoman's gasps of agony, Ra's' cold voice snapped at his daughter. The sound of it swam in Barbara's ears, like the man was speaking from a million miles away.

"Have the girl collect this whelp and tend her wounds. I want her at peak condition for her duel with the Destroyer."

Through her blurring, teary vision, Barbara looked up at the man skewering her on the end of his sword. His eyes met her, and he smiled slightly.

"You are a stubborn one," he conceded. "So proud. So certain. But you want to kill me at this very moment, don't you?"

Barbara gripped the blade and let out a pained mewl.

Ra's smirked. "You can be tamed. There are many people waiting to see you broken into more manageable pieces, my dear. And I look forward to the day you kneel willingly." He sighed. "But for now, you will fight the Destroyer. You will give it everything you have, or else the children in Gotham City will be without  _both_ of their adoptive parental figures."

Batwoman panted. Her vision was swimming, and her head felt light. The only thing keeping her alive at the moment was the blade in her gut. If it were removed she'd bleed out within minutes…

She sucked air through her teeth. "G-Go to…h—"

Ra's twisted the blade, and Barbara let out another scream.

A soft hand landed on her shoulder, but she made no attempt to turn her head and see the newcomer. All she could hear was the rush of blood in her ears, and the sound of the Demon's voice.

"Take her to the guest quarters. The Destroyer will battle her at dawn." A pause, then, he spoke again. "Lady Shiva will battle her at dawn."

He ripped the sword out of her stomach.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jason was proud to say that he wasn't a crier. Something his old man had drilled into him early on. ' _Don't cry, kid, or I'll give you something to cry about!'_ for example. (Happy childhood memories like that always made Jason feel warm and fuzzy inside.) He could probably count the number of times he'd ever shed tears on one hand.

The first time had been when he was eight, and walked into the kitchen one morning to find his mom on the ground, dead of an overdose. The second time he'd ever cried had been the night he'd come back to Gotham for the first time since his resurrection, and seen Bruce on the news with his Replacement. (Or was it in the warehouse with the Joker? He couldn't remember…) The third time had been during the Gang War. He'd been outside a room in Leslie Thompkin's clinic when the heartrate monitor inside flatlined, and he'd heard Babs scream Stephanie's name.

Number Four was probably after seeing Bruce get %*&#^*& shot in the chest.

And now, crouched on top of a concrete gargoyle and looking out at his home turf below, Jason was having a Number Five kind of a moment.

He slid off his helmet, and swiped the back of his leather glove over his eyes. They cleared a little, but still stung. Jason took a shaky breath and squinted out at the neon lights until they all blurred together.

%*&#...

It was bad enough. That Damian—his baby bro—was in intensive care. That he'd been %&^*$&#^ tortured by a maniac with a lit cig and a crowbar…Jason's fingers gripped tighter at his jacket sleeves.

That wasn't bad enough, apparently, because Dick was still MIA and Babs had disappeared right along with him. No word from either of them yet, and Jason had no way of knowing if they were okay. If they were safe, or even if they were still alive...

But the worst thing?

He'd looked into the blank, schizo eyes of his own  _% &*$^!& grandfather. _The man who was responsible for Willis Todd, and therefore, pretty much Jason's entire $#*^^% existence. The burn marks on Dami's skin? Jason had a matching set underneath his sleeves from his own happy childhood, courtesy of Willis and his stellar parenting.

Plus, finding out that his dad had also inadvertently (or maybe even intentionally, knowing his old man) killed a woman and her unborn child was also a nice surprise.

So. Murderer/gang banger Dad. Serial Killer Gramps.

Jason rubbed his left eye and glared out at the passing cars below.

_Great. Just…just great._

And watching the others? Trying to get them to fall in line was like trying to herd cats. (Or bats. Jason guessed that'd probably suck just as much.) Needless to say, he was starting to really feel bad for his older siblings, and even Bruce. How the #$%% had they put up with all of them for so long?

How did Dick and Babs do it? So freaking effortlessly?

Right now, the others were screaming at each other over the comms. He could hear their voices jabbering out of the helmet he'd set by his feet—distant and far away. Still, though, he could hear what they were arguing about.  _Vines. Memes._ And normally, Jason would have been happy to join in. But the pit in his gut kept him quiet. Staring out at the city like if he held still long enough, he'd just become another one of the gargoyles.

[ _"Ooceean Man, taakee me by the haaand, lead me to the laannd!"_ ]

[ _"Niiiice, Terry! We have taught you well! Now—"_ ]

[ _"One more vine reference and someone dies, Batgirl, I swear to %* &#!"_]

[ _"Every party needs a pooper, Tim. That's why we invited you!"_ ]

[ _"Is it wise to uses real names over the comms? This archaic frequency is sure to be hacked."_ ]

A weaker voice came over the line, and Jason almost missed it. [ _"I agree with Nightshade. Besides. While I will admit that it is much more difficult to 'run tech support' than Delphi_ ever  _made it look, it is made much more so by your constant chattering. Three hours of bickering is sufficient. So…excuse my potty mouth, but SHUT THE &*%# UP!"_]

For a few seconds, there was stunned silence over the comms.

Then, Tim's hesitant voice whispered,

[ _"Did…did…Damian just make a vine reference?"_ ]

Steph, Tim and Terry all screamed while Nightshade heaved a very heavy sigh.

But the quake in his youngest brother's voice made something in Jason's chest hurt. He couldn't help but wonder. The feeling he'd had—when he'd burst into that room and seen the kid lying on the floor bleeding out—was that how the others had felt when they'd raced to the warehouse in Quarac all those years ago? Just to get there, and find out that they were too late?

Jason thanked whoever was up there listening that they'd gotten there in time this go around. But that didn't change the fact that the kid was still laid out flat in a hospital bed. Probably had Timmy's laptop balanced on his stomach, ready to disappear under the covers the second a nurse walked in.

His wrist computer blinked, and Jason's eyes riveted down to the small screen. One tap, and the red Holoscreen flickered into being above the device. A notification made his heart skip a few beats.

Jason had contact names for every member in his family. The second he'd figured out he could mess with the settings and change the names in his contact list, he'd jumped right on the opportunity. Bruce was _, The Man,_ Dick was  _Mr. Ray-o-Sunshine,_ while Steph, Tim and Damian were  _Aubergine Queen_ (she picked it, not him. He would've gone with ‘Blonde Bombshell’ or something.),  _Captain Coffee-bean,_ and  _Gremlin_ respectively. Alfred, though, was respectfully dubbed  _Da Real MVP._

But on his screen _,_ the notification read:  _ONE UNREAD MESSAGE FROM: **BAD#$$ BARBIE DOLL**_

His jaw dropped.

_Barbara._

His eyes traced over her message, and he could feel a knot twist in his stomach. Like a punch to the friggin' gut.

"Business as usual?" he snarled under his breath. "Following a  _lead?"_

He'd seen the kind of shape Dick was in. And it wasn't a whole lot better than Damian. What kind of  _lead_ could Babs possibly be  _following_ with a cousin/serial-killer-still-at-large  _and_ a mangled half-dead Batman?

No. He'd known his sister for years. They'd worked together, lived together, and fought together since he was a kid. Her crap might've slipped by Bruce all the freaking time, and she may have been able to tug the wool down over Grayson's eyes whenever she felt like it. But Jason knew when she was hiding something. And the evidence was right there, in the last lines of the message: 'Business as usual until we get back. We'll both be back soon.'

Why stick 'back' in there twice? It was so…redundant. That wasn't like Babs. It was almost like she was trying to reassure herself.

Jason closed out of the message and brought up everyone's tracker chips, the fingers of one hand flying over the holographic keyboard. After the incident a few weeks back with Roulette, Dick and Babs had reluctantly agreed to stick locator chips back in. The kind Bruce had used, with the kind of signal that wouldn't go dead unless you did. He pinpointed Tim's dot (down on the South Side), Steph's (over towards the Narrows) and Dami's (current location: Gotham General Hospital). He assumed the McGinnis kid and future-Damian were nearby. But Babs's little blinking dot was popping up in Metropolis. Then Hong Kong. Then Seoul. Then Toronto…Which of course meant she'd hacked it. Typical.

But when he tried to find Dick's chip, a cold fist squeezed over his heart. For a few seconds, Jason even stopped breathing.

It was  _gone_.

And that meant—

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was a beautiful day. Bright sunshine, blue sky bursting with fluffy clouds. The kind that Gotham City—the ‘Seattle of the East Coast’, as outsiders often called it—never usually got to see. When days like that happened, everyone in the entire city opened their windows or went for a walk. Anything to get outside and let the warmth of the sun's rare rays touch their skin.

But of course, Barbara was trapped indoors. Staring at the sky from the less-lucky side of a plate-glass window. She let out a frustrated huff as her sweaty palms slid a little on the metal bars on either side of her. Then, her knees buckled.

She let out a pained gasp, and the therapist caught her before she could hit the hardwood floor. As he eased her back into an upright position, she sighed.

"I can't do this, Phil. Put me back on the walker."

Barbara blew a few strands of red hair out of her face, and caught the man's worried glance before he looked away.

"I'm sorry, Barbara," he said gently, repositioning her on the bars, "But you've been on the walker for eight weeks now. It's time you learned how to walk on your own. Just a few more minutes, then maybe you can take a break before—"

"&*#% you!" she snarled. "It hurts! I'm done  _now."_

The man reared back slightly, but he'd taken a lot worse before. (Mostly from her, granted.) Instead of dignifying her complaints with a response, he exhaled softly through his nose and turned to the bench on the opposite side of the room.

"Mr. Grayson," he called out. "Wanna switch me places?"

Barbara turned her head. Dick was sitting up straight underneath the white board scrawled with 'goals' and 'challenges' for the month, the week, the day, all in bright red and blue marker. His fingers were wrapped around a rolled-up magazine (Better Houses, June issue), but she could tell by the way he was sitting and the way he was staring at her that he hadn't even opened it up. As soon as the physical therapist finished his sentence, Dick rocketed to his feet, abandoning the magazine completely. He was at her side in two seconds flat.

Barbara felt the familiar pang of jealousy, just from seeing how  _easy_ it was for him to stride across the room. Effortless, even. Just like it used to be for her.

But as soon as his careful hand rested on the small of her back, she forgot the envy.

"Hey there," he said, beaming. There was a sympathetic lift to his eyebrows that she would have smacked anyone else for having (If there was one thing Barbara hated, it was pity) but instead, she managed a small smile in return.

"Kill me?" she asked him sweetly. "Please?"

"Heh," he chuckled, eyes shining in the light from the windows. "I don't think so."

The physical therapist gave Dick a few instructions, a few extra pointers, then went and sat down on the bench. His thumbs started scrolling away at his phone, though his eyes darted up towards the pair every other minute or so.

"Alright," Dick said. His voice dipped into that same sugary-sweet, encouraging tone that Barbara had heard from so many therapists and nurses and specialists over the past few months. It made her jaw clench up. "Let's just start simple, okay?"

Barbara raised an eyebrow. "Okay, babe. But stop talking to me like I'm five."

"Deal." He rested a palm between her shoulder blades, and let the other hover in front of her chest; ready to catch her if she fell forward. She met his eyes, and he shot her a lopsided smile.

"Okay, Babs. Three steps."

She made a face. "Uh-uh. My legs are about to snap like toothpicks, Grayson."

His fingers massaged her back, and she felt her shoulders loosen a little at his touch. "Babe, you know why this is important, right?"

Barbara rolled her eyes up towards the ceiling. Trying to look anywhere but at the soft mat underneath her bare feet, or the bars-of-death she was clinging onto, or the goals written in expo marker, or especially her puppy-dog-eyed boyfriend. In monotone, she said, "Because the surgery gave me back the feeling in my lower body, and restored the nerve connections, but my muscles have atrophied, so—"

"Nope." He popped the 'p' with a satisfied smirk. "It's because you're the toughest chick I know, Babs Del—Pennyworth." He lowered his voice and leaned in. His black bangs fell over his eyes, but Barbara could still see them peeking through at her. "You've dropped thugs and rogues like they were nothing. I don't think a pair of metal poles is going to be what beats you. Right?"

She bit her lip. "Dick…"

"Look," he sighed. His fingers paused on her back. "Do you want to kick Joker in the teeth?"

Her breath hitched. Barbara's voice came out as little more than a whisper.

"Oh, #$%% yes."

"Then three steps. Go."

So she did. One foot forward. Then a stumble. Barbara let out a cry as she fell forwards, and Phil the therapist looked up sharply. But Dick's arms caught her.

She was breathing heavily, leaning into him and digging her fingers into his biceps. He carefully set her back up on the bars, but she took a shaky inhale.

"Dick, I  _can't."_

"Yes, you can," he whispered into her ear. His breath hit her skin and she closed her eyes. He was quiet for a few seconds, as if thinking about something. Then, "Remember the first time you ever threw a batarang?"

Her eyes flickered open. "Really? You're bringing that up now? Way to kick a gal when she's down."

His lips pressed together into a smile. He was probably thinking back to that day, when they were both twelve years old. Bruce put a batarang in her hand during training, and pointed to a paper target twenty feet away. The goal was accuracy. Batarangs have sharp edges and could maim or even kill if thrown incorrectly.

_Then why,_ she'd thought,  _is this man handing them out to a pair of preteens?_

She reared back. The 'rang flew from her fingers in a perfect arc—right into Alfred's left leg.

The old butler (eventually) forgave her. Bruce kept her on blunts for the next few months. And Dick didn't let her live that one down for  _years._

"Do you remember?" Dick pressed her, back in the present.

Barbara bit her lip, steadying herself on the bars, but nodded.

"You sucked," he said. Then, his eyes widened a little, seeing her expression. "Uh…no offense. But really. The first few times you threw? Er…what's that expression Clark's always using?"

Barbara's eyes narrowed. "I couldn't 'hit the broadside of a barn'?"

"Right." He waved one hand. " _But._ You practiced. You got up every morning and threw 'rangs at the practice targets for hours. And now? You're the best shot out of all of us."

She smirked. "Tt. Don't let Tim hear you say that."

But…he had a point.

"You're not going to get it right away, Babs," Dick said gently. "Not the first time. Probably not even the hundredth time. But you  _will._ And when you do, you'll be jumping off buildings and kicking clowns in no time." His hand returned to the small of her back, and he shot her another warm grin. "You can do it, Oracle. I know you can."

She hesitated, and lifted her right foot, wiggling the toes. Wiggling her toes had been the first thing she'd been able to do after the surgery, and it still sent a little thrill through her every time she did it.

Then, Barbara squared her shoulders.

"Fine, Grayson," she huffed, putting one foot forward. She transitioned her weight to rest on it. Her leg shook a little, but she stayed upright, holding steady. "But you'd better not let me fall."

Another slow, shaky step. Then another try. She was doing it. Slowly, but surely.

Dick laughed.

"Never, babe. Not in a million years."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Barbara sucked in a gasp as her eyes flew open, still reeling a little from her memory-dream.

It was the cold that woke her up. Right in the center of her abdomen. And it was an agonizing kind of cold that she'd never experienced before. She let out a whimper and tried to sit up, but a firm hand caught her shoulder, and shoved her back down into the silk pillows.

Barbara was laid out on a bed of some kind. All silk, cold and soft against her bare skin. As near as she could tell, she was still wearing her uniform's bottom half. But all of the armor, the cape, and the top half had been stripped away, leaving her in her sports bra. She dared a glanced down towards her stomach, where Ra's had skewered her.

And the first thing she saw was the girl.

Petite. Lean. Long black hair braided with gold wire and draped over one shoulder. She moved precisely, and carefully, as she leaned over Barbara's midsection, a vial of luminescent green liquid held delicately between her fingers. When their eyes met, the girl frowned almost sympathetically, and tipped the vial.

The liquid hit Barbara's open wound, and she let out an unholy screech. It was cold  _beyond_  cold—her brain struggled for any sort of explanation. Because she'd squared off against Mister Freeze, Captain Cold,  _and_  Killer Frost, and she'd been blasted with more than her fair share of ice. This was vastly worse. But then, she vaguely remembered Bruce telling her once that the human brain is incapable of registering heat. It only knows ‘cold’, and ‘not-cold’. So the same parts of the brain that are triggered by extreme cold are triggered by extreme heat, since the brain can only comprehend the difference between extreme and nonextreme.

Which probably meant that the wound in her middle was being  _seared._ And the sensation was overloading her nervous system…

Barbara bucked against the bed, but the girl's hands returned to hold her down as the next round of pain lit up her vision with white.

"H-hey!" Barbara wheezed. Her arm flopped in the girl's direction. "Get away from m-me!"

The girl did not respond. She only blinked, and reached to the side of the bed.

Barbara heard a small splash, a few drips, then felt a cold weight on her stomach. This cold was more soothing, and she dared a glance back down. A washcloth dipped in water had been set over the wound carefully, and she brought her fingers up to lay it on the cool fabric. They peeled it away slowly, and she could see her midsection—completely healed.

Her eyes bugged out. The wound from Ra's' katana was gone, and there wasn't even a scar.

The girl reached for Barbara's hands, removed them from the cloth, then set to work using it to clean away the remaining blood on the Batwoman's pale skin. Her work was methodic, and Barbara studied her carefully while she moved.

Born fighter. It was the first thing Barbara noticed. She'd trained under Bruce Wayne, and seen many of  _his_ trainers in action, and all of them moved with that same… _purpose._ Every motion, every movement of the muscles told her that this girl had been raised as a warrior.

And could probably snap Barbara's neck if she wanted.

The second thing she noticed was the set of her eyes, and the fine features that characterized someone who was of Chinese descent. But the girl's skin tone suggested Caucasian heritage as well.

The third thing was the way that her brown eyes kept darting over, watching Barbara carefully.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

The girl kept scrubbing the washcloth over Barbara's stomach, giving no sign that she'd understood.

"Oh," Barbara sighed, eyes widening in realization. She scooted herself up a little, wincing from the still-smarting sting in her midsection, and raised her hands.

' _What is your name?'_ she signed.

The girl didn't respond. So Barbara tried again in CSL.

Nothing.

A needle of doubt prickled in her gut (or it might have been that her spleen was still liquified). The girl didn't seem to be deaf, but she didn't seem to speak English, either.

"ما اسمك؟" she tried, not really expecting an answer.

The girl returned the washcloth to the basin of water by the bedside. She turned, and scooped up a bundle of green, black and silver cloth from a nearby chair. As she brought it to the bed, she motioned for Barbara to raise her arms. Which she did, mind still reeling.

There had to be some way to communicate. Ra's hadn't told this girl not to speak to her, right?

The girl slid a shirt of some kind over her head and shoulders. It was leather, but the kind that moved like silk. It was soft and had a comforting weight against Barbara's skin. She glanced over the material, and saw that it was an ornate mixture of black and green designs done in the style of the League of Assassins' uniforms.

"No," Barbara muttered. "I can't wear…I shouldn't…"

She reached for the hem, and tried to tug it back over her head. But once again, the girl caught her hands, and stared at her fiercely. She shook her head once, quickly, then dropped Barbara's hands and started on her lower half. Before Barbara knew it, she was dressed in matching slacks.

"What do you want?" she demanded. "What is th—?"

The girl cut her off with another stare. Based on body language alone, Barbara got the hint:  _Stop making my life harder, and I'll let you keep yours. Deal?_

So much conveyed in one piercing look.

Barbara swallowed hard, but squared her shoulders. There had to be  _some_ way of communicating. Ra's and Talia probably ordered this girl around all the time—

Of course.

The girl didn't appear to be capable of speech. And she likely didn't know ASL or CSL. That left her options down to the handful of middle-eastern sign languages—which she royally  _sucked at._ There were only so many languages she'd been able to pick up through the years, after all.

Still. She had to start somewhere.

So she raised her hands, and tried the one she had the most knowledge in: Persian Sign Language.

' _You…understand me?'_

The girl straightened, like she'd stuck her finger into an electrical socket. Her eyes widened a little. But, then, slowly, she nodded.

Barbara almost cried out in relief.  _Finally!_

' _What…I doing…here?'_ Her hands waved feebly. She didn't have much experience with this language, but she hoped her meaning would come across.

This time, though, the girl responded.

' _Heal. Prepare. You fight. Six hours.'_

Her own signs were halted and hesitant, as if PSL wasn't her first language either. But it was  _something._

' _What…your name?'_

The girl hesitated.

And suddenly, a thought lit up in Barbara's head as if someone had flipped on a light-switch. The girl's movements… There was no sign of hesitation. Almost as if the girl were fluent in  _motion._

And she knew, then. Damian's voice came to her mind just as the girl signed out her name, letter by letter.

' _Cassandra.'_

 


	18. Desperate Measures Part 1

 

"You can't $*&#*%&  _what!?"_

Jason clapped a hand over Stephanie's mouth. Across the room, several reporters and camera men turned their way, but he waved them off with a reassuring smile. Slowly, they returned their attention to the man on top of the stage, and started firing off more questions. Commissioner Gordon pasted on a calm expression, and shot a wary glance their way as he did his best to fend off the press. Between the flashing cameras, the loud cacophony of people, and sight of so many GCPD officers lined up at attention, there would hopefully be more than enough to draw the attention away from the Wayne kids.

"You gotta stay calm," he told his girlfriend. Her mouth was still covered, but her eyes were wide and her nostrils were flaring. "You just dropped your accent, and the press can't know you're anybody but Luka Novak, remember?"

She breathed out heavily through her nose, then swatted his hand away. "Jay—"

"Ed," he corrected quickly, daring a glance back in the direction of the journalists.

"Fine.  _Ed."_ Steph huffed, then shoved him in the chest. Hard. "Explain.  _Now."_

Jason hesitated. Then, when he was satisfied that no one was listening, he leaned in close and whispered, "Like I said. His dot was gone. I can't find it."

Steph's pupils shrank to the size of pinpricks. He watched her eyes shimmer, brimming with tears. When she blinked, two of them traced down her face.

"No," she cried softly. "You're not…you can't… _no."_

"Hey." Jason caught her shoulders and met her gaze. He hoped his tone was comforting enough as he continued, "We don't know anything for sure yet. They were probably just messing around with hacking, or maybe Dick was compromised, and they had to take it out, or—"

Steph put her hands over her face and burst into tears.

Several reporters and journalists perked up, like sharks that smelled blood in the water. They turned their heads towards the gasping, sobbing girl in the purple dress, and flocked over in droves.

_Aw, crap._

"Miss Novak! Miss Novak!"

"Any comment on your missing host brother?"

"What is the current condition of Damian Wayne?"

"Now that the Triple B Killer is in custody—"

"—haven't seen Mr. Grayson? We—"

Jason shoved himself in front of Stephanie, elbowing one reporter in the face and another one in the ribs to do it. He was grateful that his girlfriend had her EMP mask on, and that he'd managed to cover the white streak in his hair with a little black dye. (Not that it would stay for long—no matter how often he dyed the #*%& thing, it always came back after a few days.) His mouth twisted into a snarl as he snapped, "No comment!"

Which, of course, was exactly when Timmy decided to pop up out of nowhere.

"Pop quiz," he said, curtly. His hands were clasped behind his back, and in the freshly pressed suit and tie, he looked every bit the part of 'Timothy Drake, Billionaire's Ward'. The reporters seemed to notice, and snapped to attention. "What did  _you_ all get from the press conference just now?

"Mr. Drake! We—"

"—what is your opinion on—"

"—Grayson's whereabouts?"

Tim cleared his throat. He pasted on the classic 'Dissmissive Bat-Frown'™. "Really? Wrong answers, people. Because I thought I heard the Commissioner say— _very_ clearly, keep in mind—that half of the Triple B Partnership is still at large? And that divulging anything we  _do_ know about my brother's condition could put both him and our family in danger at this time." He squared his shoulders, pulling himself up to his full five-foot-seven height. "So. If you have any relevant questions, please go and take them to the Commissioner. I'm sure he'd be happy to repeat his entire speech all over again."

Tim put a hand on Jason's and Stephanie's arms, and started to steer them away from the reporters.

"Mr. Drake!" one of the braver ones cried out. "Do you have anything you'd like to say to your brothers' kidnappers?"

Tim turned his head slightly. His long hair fell halfway over his face as he scowled back at them.

"Yeah, I do," he snapped. "Go suck a bag of &*%#$. Feel free to quote me on that."

That caused a stir amongst the journalists and cameramen, but the Wayne kids ignored them as they stepped into one of the hallways outside the Town Hall's main conference hall. Jason kept an eye on his little bro as they stalked down the green and gold carpet towards one of the stone-railed stairways. Steph still had a hand over her mouth as she stared up at the passing paintings and photographs of Old Gotham hanging on the walls. She seemed like she was about to lose it again, so Jason draped an arm over one of her shoulders.

"Nice work out there, Timbo," he said, keeping his voice down as they climbed to the top. "Way to strike the fear of the Commish into those Lois Lane wannabes."

Tim nodded once, then turned them down another hallway. They stepped out onto one of the balconies that looked over the conference hall, and Tim's fingers curled on the marble railing. Jason watched his eyes sweep over the crowd below, and his expression darkened.

"Yeah?" he breathed. "Well, I just channeled my inner Barb—."

On their sister's name, his voice broke slightly, and he coughed.

"Of course," he continued, "Vulture Lady hasn't made an appearance quite yet, so that's cause for a little concern."

"T'yeah. You'd think she'd be all over this," Jason said, voice low in his throat. Then he added, "That &*%!#."

Stephanie hiccupped a little, and pressed her other hand over her mouth, screwing her eyes shut. Tim turned to her, and a concerned line appeared between his brows.

"Steph?" he whispered, reaching out to put a hand on her arm.

She shook him off, and stepped back. Her shoulder-blades pressed against the patterned wallpaper, and she slid to the ground slowly. A sob ripped out of her throat.

Tim whirled around to Jason, eyes wide. "What happened?"

Jason's lips pressed together in a tight line as he steeled himself. "Timmy," he started, voice hoarse as sandpaper.

But before he got the chance to tell Tim that their brother might be…that he couldn't find his tracker chip, someone stepped lightly onto the balcony to stand beside them. The words died in Jason's throat, and even Tim stepped back. Steph's eyes flickered open, red-rimmed and bloodshot, and she gaped, moving to stand.

The stranger offered her a hand, smiling debonairly. "Please, allow me." Jason raised an eyebrow, and gave the newcomer a once-over. He had slicked back, slightly-graying black hair and a five o' clock shadow that he managed to pull off pretty well, for a guy in his forties or fifties. Italian suit, silver watch, matching gray tie—clearly came from money. As he pulled Steph to her feet with one hand, he pressed another to her shoulder, keeping her steady.

"I thought I saw you three come up this way," the man said, shooting them all a white smile. It slipped suddenly, though. "I hope I'm not intruding?"

Tim's knuckles knocked against the stone railing. His expression was impossible to read, even for Jason.

"Not at all," he said, frowning. "I don't believe we've met, Mr.—?"

"March." The man nodded and offered a hand to Tim. "Lincoln March."

Jason's eyebrows rose on his forehead. "As in, mayoral candidate, Lincoln March?"

"Right on the money." March's small smile dipped back into a sympathetic frown. "I'd like to offer my condolences. I'm sure you three have had a rough few weeks. Is…" He paused, as if checking himself, then continued. "Is your younger brother alright? Damian, is it?"

Tim's expression hardened, and he dropped Mr. March's hand carefully. "Yes. He's in ICU at the moment. But he's a fighter. He'll be okay."

March nodded. Jason saw concern flicker across his face. "And your older brother? Richard?"

"Dick is—"

"Can't talk about it," Jason cut in sharply. All eyes fastened on him, and he stuffed his hands into his suit pockets. He shrugged, and added, "Gordon told us not to say anything about the case. Not 'til we catch the S.O.B. who did it."

Relief fluttered over Tim's expression briefly, and he saw Stephanie bite her lip. March only nodded again, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Right," he said, "Of course. I'm sorry to pry. But if I may, I'd just like to say that—"

A long wail rose over the crowd below, and all four of them turned to peer over the railing. March forgot what he'd been about to say, and craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the commotion.

A woman in bright peacock-blue let out another long wail as she collapsed to the stone tiles, sobbing. Her hair was almost as red as Barbara's, Jason noticed, and was pinned back with a few curling blue feathers. Three of the woman's companions—two men in bright yellow and another burlier one in green—bent down to help her back to her feet, or offer comfort, but she shook them off.

"He's…he's…" The woman gasped. The rest of the hall had fallen silent, so the sound of her voice floated easily up to the balcony. "Not Dick! What  _happened?_ Who would've…how could this…"

Tim and Jason shared a wide-eyed glance.

Who was  _this?_

The question was on Jason's tongue, but before he got the chance to voice it, Tim stiffened. He followed his brother's line of sight, and felt a prickle of discomfort shiver down his spine.

Another red-head was stalking through the crowd of black, brown and gray suits towards the brightly dressed people near the back. Her shoulders were set into a predatory arch, and even from up so high, they could see the victorious set of her red painted lips. With a quick motion, the woman whipped out an iphone, and held it up to the woman in blue.

"Excuse me, miss," the lady said, "I'm Vicki Vale with the  _Gazette._ I just have a few questions I'd like to…"

The noise of the crowd returned, blanketing the rest of Vale's statement.

Next to Jason, Tim let out a few words that would have brought Alfred running with a bar of soap. Mr. March raised his eyebrows, but wisely didn't say anything. Instead, he offered Steph a fresh Kleenex from his suit pocket. She took it, and pressed it to her nose with a sniff.

"Is there anything else you need, Mr. March?" Tim asked, schooling his features back into impassivity.

March hesitated, then shook his head. "Please. Lincoln."

Tim raised an eyebrow. "I'm afraid I was raised to address people formally, Mr. March. Especially strangers."

The last part was said with a friendlier smile, but Jason caught the sharp undertone. March might have caught it too, but his smile was almost…fond.

"Of course." He nodded, then turned his body slightly, ready to leave the balcony. "But by all means, don't hesitate to let me know if there's anything that I can do for you. It would be my pleasure to help."

Tim turned away. "Thank you."

March's eyes lingered on Tim, then he glanced up at Jason. There was a wistful look in his eyes, and it made Jason frown curiously. But he didn't have the chance to think about it further. March turned on his heel, and stepped out.

The Wayne kids listened to his soft footsteps pad down the hall, then let out a simultaneous breath.

Tim sagged against the railing. He looked up at Jason and Steph and said, carefully, "Court?"

Jason snorted. "Oh, definitely."

"Yep." Steph sniffled into her tissue. "I got that, too."

"Then we'll have to keep an eye on him," Tim said with a decisive nod. He stepped out into the hall after March, and Jason quickly turned to Steph.

"We can't tell him," he said, flatly. "Not until we know for sure."

Steph sniffed, but nodded. Then her lip quivered. "Jay, he could be…what if he's  _dead?"_

"It's probably just technical issue crap. I'm sure the idiot's fine." Jason glanced back down at the brightly dressed people being interrogated by the Vulture Lady. The woman in blue was sobbing while her yellow-clad companion propped her up.

Steph whimpered again, and Jason wrapped her in a hug.

"Dick's fine, Steph. Don't worry."

 

 

* * *

 

 

As it turned out, it was difficult to communicate with someone when the only language you had in common was one that neither of you knew well. For the first hour or so, Barbara signed lamely at Cassandra while the former dressed her in the rest of her League of Assassin robes.

It was mostly silk and soft leather, the kind that molded to her body like a second skin. The bodice clung to her waist and hugged her ribcage, while the bottom of the top flared at her hips like a tunic. The whole thing stitched up the front of her chest with silver colored ties, matched by the lacing on the sides of her leggings. Cassandra helped her slip into a pair of leather boots, and draped an emerald green cape around her shoulders, securing it with a silvery pin shaped like a curled snake.

The girl didn't offer much up in return to Barbara's attempts at conversation. Only nodded and raised one fine eyebrow every now and then. It might have been that her hands were busy, or maybe that she didn't know much in the way of PSL.

But, then again, maybe she just didn't want to talk.

After hour three, though, Barbara could tell that the small girl was starting to wear down a little.

" _How old?"_ she signed.

Cassandra sighed, but raised a hand. " _Ten and eight."_

Eighteen wouldn't have been her first guess (the girl was short enough to be fourteen or fifteen— _maybe_ ) and Barbara's eyebrows crept up her forehead. Cassandra smoothed them back down, though, when she placed a silver circlet over Barbara's head. As she busied herself securing it, Barbara waved her hands again.

" _My sister…ten and eight also."_

She could tell that Cassandra was humoring her now.  _"Her name?"_

Barbara knew the alphabet, at least. It was the same way that the other girl had managed to sign her name, so she carefully formed each letter with her left hand.

" _S-T-E-P-H-A-N-I-E._ "

A little while after that, they exchanged questions. Favorite colors. Favorite foods. Anything that Barbara could remember, she signed. And Cassandra was able to reply, most of the time. But more often than not, the two girls would frown or wince in frustration, before ultimately resorting to spelling the words out letter by letter.

Hour four, when Cassandra had brought her a platter of meze, the quiet girl started to ask Barbara questions while she ate, both of them lounging back on the soft bed.

" _Why…here?"_

Barbara swallowed a mouthful of expertly spiced food.

" _My…P-A-R-T-N-E-R…needs me."_

Then, she shook her head. That wasn't quite right. She wished that she knew more—knew enough to get her point across, and explain herself more easily. But she settled on a few simple hand motions.

" _I…need…H-I-M."_

Cassandra frowned, confused. But then busied herself with running a hairbrush through Barbara's tangled hair. She tried to protest, but the girl insisted on attacking her head with the boar-bristles. Barbara could only sigh and endure the rough treatment, wincing every now and then when Cassandra raked the brush through sections matted with blood or twisted into knots. Once her scalp started to tingle painfully, Cassandra sat back on the silk sheets. Finished.

After a few moments of silence, the girl lifted her hands again.

" _You kill before?"_

Barbara hesitated, wincing. Then,  _"Yes."_

Cassandra didn't seem overly put-off by that answer. Instead, she leaned forward, curious.  _"How?"_

How? Seriously? Barbara flailed, unsure how to explain, and doubly unsure if she  _wanted_ to. Cassandra's hands waved.

" _Blade? G-U-N? Poison?"_

She shook her head, vaguely horrified.  _"No. I pushed…H-E…fell."_

The girl thought about that for a minute, sitting even further back. Barbara searched her expression, but found that she couldn't get a read on this girl. At all.

She opened her mouth to say something, verbally this time. But before she got the chance, Cassandra leapt off the bed in one fluid, practiced motion.

She turned to Barbara and gestured for her to follow.

" _I teach. You…M-U-S-T…W-I-N."_

" _What?"_

But she was already off the bed. She was surprised to note that the motion didn't hurt her abdomen at all—it was like the wound had never even been there in the first place. Encouraged, her feet moved of their own volition towards the center of the room, following Cassandra carefully. The bottoms of her boots clicked dryly against the cool marble floor, but she couldn't help but notice that her companion's steps were completely silent. Just the way she moved, shoulders, back, legs, arms—all fluid, all confident. She was much more comfortable in her own skin than anyone else Barbara had ever seen.

She studied the girl again while she pushed a few decorative tables and couches out of the center of the large room, clearing a space. Cassandra was strong for a girl her size; Barbara moved to help her with one of the couches, but the other girl refused with a raised hand. She was also quick, and light on her feet, rushing from one piece of furniture to the other. It was almost unnatural how quickly she moved.

When she was satisfied with the space she'd created, Cassandra placed two small hands on her hips and turned her face towards Barbara, unsmiling. (Come to think of it, she hadn't seen the girl smile once since she'd been here.)

" _Here. Now. We…B-E-G-I-N."_

Barbara nodded, and stepped over to a spot across from Cassandra. Slowly, she swept one foot out behind her as she placed herself in a starting stance. The sole of her boot whispered on the stone tiles beneath her. But Cassandra frowned, and shook her head.

Then, she took one fist, placed it into the palm of her other hand, and bowed. Feet together, back straight. Her braid tumbled over her shoulder, and the light from the room's hanging lamps caught the wire in her hair.

Cassandra straightened, then nodded to Barbara.

" _Now. You."_

Barbara flushed a little, embarrassed. Hadn't Damian demonstrated this same thing to her just a few days ago? But she complied, bending her body in the way that Cassandra had showed her.

The smaller girl seemed mollified, and her face twisted into something that was almost…a smirk?

" _Now."_

And just like that, Cassandra moved like lightning.

Barbara swept to the side to dodge the girl's incoming attack. A fist sailed by her face, so close, she could feel the displaced air brush against her cheekbone. She twisted, leg out. Cassandra leapt up easily, over Barbara's leg, as if she'd expected the kick. Barbara couldn't help but gape at the sheer height the other girl had managed to—

And then she was on her back. Her skull knocked against the stone floor. She could feel its frigid smoothness through the cushion of her hair, but that small barrier between her head and the tiles wasn't enough to stop the sparkles at the corners of her eyes.

She winced, painfully. "Holy sh—"

Cassandra yanked her up by one hand. Her face was a mask of indifference.

" _You…slow. Do not…know how to…fight."_ She cocked her head, eyes narrowing.  _"But…soon?"_

Barbara shook her head, trying to clear the sparkles away. She took that statement, though, to mean that she had potential. Hopefully.

"Right," she said, dusting herself off and readjusting her cape. "I wasn't ready. But this time…"

They began again. Barbara lasted a grand total of  _ten_ seconds this time.

Then, again.

Then, again.

Then,  _again._

And slowly, carefully, Barbara began to notice things in the way that the other girl moved. How her eyes twitched towards Barbara's arms entire seconds before she threw a punch. How she seemed to be able to anticipate every single moved that Barbara wanted to make, before she even knew she wanted to make them. How movement to her was likely the same as breathing was for Barbara.

Cassandra, she was coming to realize, really was fluent in  _motion._

Because, during their fortieth or fiftieth match (she'd stopped keeping track after a few dozen), they'd entered into a sort of rhythm. Barbara realized that Cassandra was allowing her to read her movements, just like she'd been reading Barbara's. Moving slower, allowing Barbara to learn this new technique of communication.

And she discovered that it came to her much more easily than she ever would have thought. (Especially now that Cassandra was going easier on her.)

Each strike. Each kick. Each dodge, flip, spin, duck, sway, curve, line, expression—it was all  _language._

A language, she was pleasantly surprised to realize, that wasn't much different than the silent communication she shared with her siblings. But especially Bruce. And especially Dick.

So, as she studied Cassandra's dialect—the inflections of her motions and movements—she began to piece together the small girl's language. And she initiated the first real conversation. One that didn't involve  _words_ so much as  _meaning._

Her fist sailed past Cassandra's head, and she pivoted on her ankle.

_Is this right, Cassandra?_

Her companion had been consistently stoic and unexpressive throughout this entire sparring match. But now, that façade cracked like a glass vase.

Cassandra's head whipped around towards Barbara, mouth falling open in shock. Which allowed for Barbara to land her first right hook across the other girl's jaw.

_I think I understand now._

Cassandra beamed for the first time, and wiped at the corner of her mouth with the back of one hand, completely unaffected. She spun. Kicked out. Lifted her arm to block Barbara's next strike.

_You…you do!_ She seemed to say, eyes wide with surprise.  _No one else has ever…_

Barbara wasn't able to catch the rest. Her newfound skills of communication were anything but flawless…but at least they made for easier exchanges. She ducked, and spun out of the way of Cassandra's next attack.

_Who am I fighting, Cassandra?_

Ra's had kept calling the woman 'the Destroyer'. Barbara had never heard that name, and had no idea which assassin it belonged to. She could remember Ra's saying another name, connected with it, but her senses had been so overwhelmed with pain that she hadn't heard a word.

A roundhouse kick. Blocked. Another punch thrown.  _The Destroyer. But you might know her as 'Lady Shiva'._

Barbara froze. That name, she  _did_ know.

Lady Shiva. The world's deadliest assassin.

Years ago, when she and Dick had still been running around in bright spandex and old-fashioned Kevlar, Bruce had taken them aside one night. Right after training, when they were still panting and sweating from another long session of sparring against each other, and their mentor. She remembered the sound of Dick heaving for breath. Barbara could still feel the leather back of the Batcomputer's chair crackle under her palms as she leaned against it for support, leg muscles quivering.

Bruce pulled up a file on the screen. Images and words flashed before the two preteens' tired eyes. But they snapped to attention once the pictures of mangled bodies and staring, lifeless eyes stared back at them.

" _Lady Shiva,"_ Bruce had told them somberly, flipping through each case file. One after the other.  _"Is the one of the only enemies I can never ask you to fight. If you see her. If you hear she's in the area. If you even_ think  _she may be nearby…then I want you to run."_

Dick had frowned. He was still all bravado and bravery. He didn't know what kinds of monsters there were out there. Not yet.  _"But Bruce—"_

" _Run. Find somewhere safe to hide. Don't look back, and don't stop until you're somewhere secure. Do you understand?"_

They'd nodded. What else could they do?

Especially when Bruce's jaw had tightened, with some emotion that Barbara hadn't known how to name then, and probably wouldn't know now.

" _She is the most skilled fighter on the planet. The last time I fought her, she broke every last bone in my body, only leaving me alive because it amused her."_ Bruce glanced away, swallowing, then said,  _"Dick. Barbara. I could never ask you to fight her, because doing so would cost you your lives. Just…promise me. .."_

Barbara returned to the present when she felt Cassandra's knuckles connect with the soft spot just beneath her ribs. Pain flared, hot and unexpected. But she pushed through, and focused on what Cassandra was trying to tell her.

_Shiva. You know her?_

Barbara spun and brought up one ankle in an attempt at a kick.

_Yes. But I've been told that people who fight her don't…come back._

_It's true,_ Cassandra said with a twist of her torso and a quick uppercut.  _Only the truly desperate fight Shiva willingly. So. Why are you so set on your death wish?_

Barbara flipped herself up onto one hand, curling her body away from Cassandra's attempted strike.  _I made a promise, once,_ she tried to convey. Using every tilt of her spine, every twist of her arms.  _That I would keep my family together. My partner is…part of my family. But more._

Cassandra lazily tossed a fist towards Barbara's shoulder. But the set of her mouth betrayed her curiosity.  _More?_

_Yes. He is…was…is…my better half._ Barbara's motions got more and more shaky with emotion. Something Cassandra took advantage of with a few well-placed jabs.

_All of us are whole on our own. I do not understand what you mean?_

_He…makes me better. When things are dark, my partner makes them…brighter._ Barbara ducked, spinning on her heel before launching back up into an attack.  _We might think we're whole by ourselves, Cassandra. But all of us need someone to keep us…better._

Cassandra hit her shoulder with a roundhouse kick.  _You love him, then?_

Barbara smiled, grabbing at Cassandra's ankle with a hand.  _More than I could even tell you._

They threw a few more strikes at each other that didn't particularly mean much. Barbara could still tell that the other girl was going easy on her.  _Very_ easy. Like she was sparring against a little kid.

But she didn't care. She was just happy that they'd reached some middle ground.

_Do you have family, Cassandra?_

The question seemed to catch the smaller girl by surprise. But she recovered quickly, throwing up two arms to block Barbara's next blow.

_Mother. Father. The Demon's Head._

_Ra's doesn't count._ Barbara shook her head, then ducked below Cassandra's left hook.  _But you do have parents?_

_Yes…everyone does._

Barbara spun, cape flapping behind her. She arched her back as she dodged her opponent's next jab.  _Cassandra? Have you ever met them?_

There was almost a shrug to her shoulders as Cassandra raised both fists again. Her braid whirled as she spun into the air, forcing Barbara to throw up a forearm against her flying kick.  _No. They gifted me to the Demon's Head as an infant. I have served him and his house all my life._

Barbara faltered, then. Which left her wide open for another kick to the face. Her head snapped back, and she let out a soft grunt of surprise, tasting the tang of blood on her tongue. But a pit opened up in her stomach.

_Cassandra,_ she asked with a thrown fist. Her hesitation was language enough as she paused.  _Would you ever…leave Nanda Parbat?_

Cassandra paused too, fists still in the ready position. Her frown was thoughtful.  _Why would I leave my home?_

_Because,_ the tilt of Barbara's shoulders said. The way she stepped towards her opponent, light and careful.  _My partner and I. We would give you a home in Gotham. With us._

Cassandra's eyes narrowed.  _I only serve the House of Al Ghul._

_Not as a servant._ Barbara threw up both hands. Then, she placed one on the other girl's shoulder.  _As a part of our_   _family. As a sister._

The girl's eyes fluttered wide, staring at something behind Barbara's shoulder. Batwoman could see flashes of honey streaked through her brown irises. She watched the shorter girl frown thoughtfully. As if thinking hard about that statement. For a few moments, the room was thrown into complete silence, and all Barbara could hear was the pounding of her own heart.

Then, Cassandra squared her shoulders.  _Perhaps I—_

The door was thrown open, and both girls spun around, flinching.

Talia Al Ghul stepped lightly into the room, followed by two armed guards clad all in black and green. Her eyes raked over the pair carefully, and her mouth twisted into a sneer.

"Girl," she snapped. "Step away from the Oracle."

Cassandra bowed at the waist, hands folded over her chest. Slowly, she backed away. Barbara understood the apology loud and clear, but Talia did not.

"What were you doing?" she demanded. Then huffed. "Never mind."

Barbara straightened, glaring up at the brunette. She'd never been a fan of Talia's, especially considering everything the woman had put Damian through. But speaking to Cassandra like that—

Barbara opened her mouth. To offer up some cutting remark, or maybe speak on Cassandra's behalf.

But Talia waved a hand. "You," she snapped. "Oracle. It is time."

The guards stepped forward, brandishing their blades.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He wasn't so put off by the fact that everything was white. He was a little more concerned about the  _why._

The last thing he remembered was Barbara's face. Her blue eyes filled up with tears as she sobbed his name. Begged him not to leave her.

And pain. He remembered a lot of pain.

But he was somewhere else, now. Some strange landscape that was bright and colorless and swarming with strangers.

Dick's eyes swept his surroundings as he shuffled through the crowd. Everyone around him was laughing and smiling and embracing each other. And they, like him, were all dressed in snowy white. He wore a simple v-neck, a new pair of jeans, and his favorite converse (he could tell by the way they fit his feet)—all unpigmented and brand-new looking.

The sky was still blue, though, but full of ginormous fluffy clouds that billowed and swirled overhead. And almost seemed…too close. They were way bigger than any clouds Dick had ever seen, and he gazed up at them, open mouthed and transfixed. A huge one floated by, and he could see every individual wisp and drop of water vapor, glinting in the light from a sun he couldn't see.

A small voice made him look down.

"Mister?"

A little girl was tugging on the bottom of his shirt. Wide eyed and innocent, but it was her appearance that gave him pause. Her hair was pulled up into a pair of matching braids, and was completely void of color. Even her eyes were a slate blue that didn't quite seem normal. She was clad in a white dress that fell to her knees, and matching white Mary-Janes, complete with lacy socks.

But then she smiled, and something in Dick's heart melted.

He took a knee, ignoring the people shuffling around them, and breathed, softly. "Hi."

She beamed even wider, and some sense of familiarity needled at the edge of Dick's mind. "Hi!"

"Um," he asked her, managing a small smile. His eyes darted around meaningfully at the other people around them. "I don't know where I am. Could you…tell me?"

Her chin dipped in a small nod. "Yeah! That's why I'm here."

She pointed around them, at the other people. And Dick took notice of their appearance.

Everyone was dressed in white; men women and children. But most of them had brown, blond, black, or red hair (along with every shade in between). Dick reached up and yanked at his head, pulling away a few strands that were his usual ebony color.

But he could spot smaller figures darting through people's legs. Giggling, or leading adults along by the hand. These kids looked just like the little girl in front of him—all dressed in white, and features drained of color.

There was something almost…unrealized about them. Innocent.

"You died," the girl said, shrugging. Her lips were pursed and she nodded nonchalantly. Like she was stating an obvious fact. The sky is blue. Pizza is good. Why not? "And now you're here."

He frowned. "Um…yeah. But  _where?"_

"Here." She shook her head with a smile. Again, like it should have been obvious. "Follow me!"

And then she snatched up his hand in her tiny fingers and dragged him through the crowd of people. The other white-clad members of the sea parted to make way, and Dick had to sprint to keep up.

"C'mon!" Laughter bubbled out of the girl's throat. "They can't wait to see you again!"

He dodged out of the way of a woman being embraced by two little boys—one with red hair, and the other with white. His ankles skidded on the ground, and he managed to croak out, "Who?" before being dragged onward again.

She giggled again. "You'll see!"

People smiled at him as they passed. Some of them even waved. The little girl dragged him this way and that, further and further away from his starting point.

Then he glanced up and saw the peak of a familiar shape above the crowd.

His jaw dropped.

It was…

The circus tent was exactly the way Dick remembered it, except done up in different shades of white. There was the patch where Freddie had repaired a leak when he was about six (though he remembered it being red). There were the streamer flags at the tips of each point. The main tent, the Big Top, was waiting front and center for them.

The girl pulled him on, but this time, Dick was sprinting with purpose. Towards something.

He couldn't believe it. Especially when she led him through the tent's open flap.

The smell hit him first. Musty and familiar. The scent of sweat and animals and people and fried food and popcorn and—

Light filtered through the fabric of the tent, and he swept his damp eyes around. He could see animals milling around. A lion. A pair of elephants. Some white ponies with feathers in their manes. People in bright white costumes danced past, fixed their eyes on him, and beamed.

"Dick!" the cried, waving at him like they were old friends. But they rushed back quickly to whatever they'd been doing.

Everything was familiar. The ring. The crunch of gravel and sand underneath his shoes. The taste of the stale air under the behemoth tent.

It was like…coming home.

The girl tugged on his hand, smiling widely, then said, "Look!"

Dick's eyes followed her pointed finger upwards. Towards the top of the tent, up the support beams and right—there. The trapeze.

Three people milled around lazily on one of the platforms, standing and shifting comfortably. They were watching two others swing on the wire. A man hooked his legs over the trapeze bar, and swung out to meet a woman. She let go of her own bar and fell gracefully through the air, arms up and outreached for the man's stretching hands. Her sashes billowed behind her like the pale gossamer wings of an angel. Her face was youthful and beaming, and beautiful. And so, so trusting, as she flew.

Dick's breath hitched for a few seconds. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears.

Then, the woman caught her husband's hands. They swung back, and flipped themselves onto the platform opposite the other aerialists. First the woman. Then the man.

"They're waiting for you," the girl said brightly. She nudged Dick forward, encouragingly. "Go on!"

Dick took one step. Then another. Then another and another until he'd broken out into a full-on sprint.

"Mami?" he called out. Two tears leaked out the corners of his eyes. "Tati?"

The people on the trapeze platforms all glanced down. For a few seconds, they stared down at him in disbelief. Then, the youngest—a girl of about seventeen—cried out in surprise. " _Dick?_ Mom! Dad! Uncle John, Aunt Mary! it's Dickie!"

They rushed down the ladders on the beams, skipping rungs until their feet hit the ground, creating little clouds of dust. They ran towards Dick, even while he was running towards them. Arms pumping, heart pounding, eyes streaming.

They were all—all of the Flying Graysons—dressed in white versions of their uniforms. Dick could see the eagle spread over their chests, done in shimmering snowy fabric that stood out from the rest of their beige costumes. Dick remembered the original pieces being black, red and gold.

But color was the last thing he cared about as his father's arms wrapped around his shoulders. His mother pressed her face into his neck, muttering his name over and over again. His Uncle Ricky, Aunt Karla, and cousin Magda all crowded around, laughing and wrapping their arms around the trio.

Dick pulled away, and swiped the tears under his eyes away with his thumb. "I can't believe it! It's…it's really you!"

John and Mary Grayson looked exactly the way Dick remembered them. His mother had Dick's tanned skin, and her cinnamon toast colored hair was swept back into an intricate show-bun. His father had his dark hair, but his skin was lighter than Dick's had ever been. Aunt Karla's auburn hair matched her daughter Magda's, and his Uncle Ricky shared his dad's blue eyes…

And they were all  _here._

His mom reached up and brushed another tear away with her finger, cradling Dick's face in her palm. Her brown eyes were moist as she said, voice cracking, " îngerașul meu?"  _My little angel?_

"Dick," his father said, through a smile and a sob. "It's been a while, son."

 

 

* * *

 

 

They led her to an underground arena, one of several used by the League of Assassins. Typically used for duels and practice sparring sessions, today, this one would be used for something bloodier. And the League knew it. They showed up in droves, filling the edges around the sand pit in the center. Barbara could see their leering faces in the shadows, and she swept the crowd of assassins for one person.

There.

Ra's Al Ghul stood above the rest on a metal platform. His hands were folded neatly into his robes, and she could spot his satisfied smirk from this distance. On his right stood Talia and another well-built figure Barbara recognized as Slade Wilson: Deathstroke. The bounty-hunter-turned-assassin had his arms crossed tightly over his broad chest, and he kept his gaze fixed carefully on her.

To the Demon Head's left stood Cassandra, and another figure that Barbra didn't recognize. This person was in a well-pressed suitcoat and tie, standing at easy attention. He would have seemed like any other mogul or business man, dressed to the nines and ready for his three-o'-clock—if not for the ivory mask over his face. Pale and vaguely egg-shaped, it had two dark almond-shaped eyes that stared coldly down at her. At its center, there was a raised peak that reminded her of a beak.

It was easy to recognize the mask as a barn owl's face.

"Welcome, Oracle," Ra's said. His voice cut through the League's chatter like a sharpened blade, and they all fell silent. "Are you ready?"

The guard on Barbara's right handed something to her. She accepted it numbly, and glanced down.

It was a volto mask. Black, and peridot-shaped, with green lines etched into its surface. She recognized the design instantly; it was the face of the Oracle. Her own design.

As she fastened it to her face, the other guard stepped forward, wheeling a cart-like contraption towards her. It was a weapons rack, and she spotted spears, staffs, katanas, knives, shuriken's, sai's, battle axes, and every other conceivable tool of death.

"Choose your weapon, my dear," Ra's sneered. The other assassins laughed, and Barbara scowled behind her mask.

Her hand floated towards the shuriken's. They were the most similar to batarangs.

But then her eye caught a set of twin double-bladed daggers, both as long as her forearms with well-worn handles in the center. She picked them up carefully, one in each hand, and felt the smooth metal brush against the skin of her palms. Barbara spun them, and noticed that the weight and balance was similar to escrima sticks.

"These," she announced.

The guard nodded, and removed the weapons rack. His companion followed after him, leaving Barbara alone in the sandpit.

Without further preamble, someone else stepped into the ring. She heard their footsteps before she saw them.

Lady Shiva stalked forward, brushing Barbara's shoulder as she passed. Her eyes raked over the assassiness as she came to a stop a few feet away, standing at ready attention.

Her uniform was jade green. She wore a mask like Barbara's, only hers was expressionless, and decorated with sharp horns. She could see cold, lightless eyes staring back at her, and Barbara's own eyes narrowed.

"Lady Shiva," Ra's Al Ghul announced to the crowd. "Our reigning warrior, against the Oracle from Gotham. The winner walks away with their life." He strode forward, cape swirling behind him. As he unsheathed his katana, the room fell into deathly silence. All Barbara could hear was the  _snik_ of his blade, and the hollow sound of her own breaths behind her mask.

"Make ready," Ra's said, raising his sword.

Shiva unsheathed her twin scythes, holding one in each hand as she slid into the ready position Cassandra had showed her earlier. Barbara copied her—though the motion was made slightly more difficult with weapons in her hands. They both bowed at the waist. Then both looked up, and met eyes.

_This is the woman who is going to kill me._

Ra's brought his sword down in a sweeping arc. " _Begin!"_

Shiva burst forward.

Barbara brought up one dagger, and sparks rained down on her face as Shiva's miniature scythe clanged against the blade. She twisted out of the way as the assassiness swept her other weapon towards Barbara's torso. She was fast. But Shiva was faster. Barbara hissed a little as she felt a wound open on her side.

"First blood," Shiva crooned, eyes narrowing behind the mask. "Delicious."

Her heel connected with Barbara's chin. She slid backwards, feet burying themselves in the sand. The conditions were not ideal; sand underfoot was going to throw her more than a little off balance…

She arched her back, hands hitting the sand behind her head as she bent backwards. Shiva's blade sliced through the air above her face, just barely nicking the nose of her mask.

Barbara's heartrate spiked.

_Not good, Babs. Keep steady…just keep it steady…_

Her boot whipped up and caught Shiva's face. The Destroyer's mask flew to the side as her neck whipped back. The assassiness let out a sharp grunt, then whirled around, nostrils flaring.

She was beautiful. Narrowed, almond-shaped eyes, heart-shaped face, and dark hair clipped close to her head in a stylish pixie cut. If Barbara would have seen this woman walking down the street in Gotham, she may have assumed she was the wife of a socialite. Or, more likely, a business woman in her own right.

The professional image was marred slightly by the white scar that sliced over one cheekbone. And the look of shock and rage on the assassiness's pretty face.

A little blood dribbled off Shiva's lips.

"Second blood," Barbara spat. She flipped herself upright, and raised her blade.

Shiva caught it with a jerk of her wrist. Metal clanged on metal, and she smirked. "A cocky little thing, aren't you?"

The glint of her other blade in Barbara's peripherals made her flinch back. Just narrowly avoiding the tip.

She twirled her blades, glowering, and lunged.

Shiva moved like water. Liquid and graceful as she dodged each one of Barbara's attacks. The clang of metal on metal was the only sound shared between the two as they danced around each other. Barbara twisted. Shiva thrust her blade forward. Barbara swiped out. Shiva bent backwards, twisting her body into a flip before coming up.

Lightning fast, she flipped a scythe out of one hand and into the other. Her free fist connected with Barbara's jaw.

Barbara let out a cry of pain as she heard something crack. Hopefully, it was just her mask. Which shattered into pieces, falling uselessly to the sand. She looked up sharply, staggering. Shiva smirked over at her, one eyebrow raised in triumph.

"Now we're even?" Barbara asked through her teeth. She raised her daggers, ready to attack or defend.

Shiva let out a small huff of laughter. "Please, darling," she crooned. "Don't pretend we're on equal ground."

Her blades moved fast. Barbara dodged from side to side to avoid their sharp edges. One caught a lock of her hair, and a dozen red strands scattered across the piles of sand. She brought a dagger up quickly, just in time to block Shiva's scythe from slicing into her throat.

"I mean," the assassiness continued, "Just look at your form! Your technique is so…" Her other scythe nicked Barbara's cheek with a sharp sting. She could feel a few drops of blood stream down her face. " _Boorish._ It's got Bruce Wayne written all over it."

Barbara leapt forward, one foot swinging up. Shiva arched out of the way easily. "Yeah?" she panted. "And what's wrong with that?"

Shiva's smile was dark and smug. She threw one scythe, and it lodged into the sand handle-up. "Let me ask you this, sweet thing. Are you a man?"

Barbara hesitated at the strange question. Which gave Shiva the opportunity to strike out with her free fist. Stars gleamed in Barbara's vision as she felt her opponent's blow in her solar plexus. " _Gyuh!_ Heh… _no,"_ she replied, staggering back.

"Are you a 210 pound, six foot-two inch male?" Shiva queried, landing blow after blow. Faster than Barbara could defend herself, and far faster than she herself had ever moved in her life.

" _No,_ " Barbara grunted, falling back. Sparks burst in her vision, popping and exploding in painful blitzes.

"Then why," Shiva demanded, landing a swinging kick into Barbara's jaw, "Do you  _move like one?"_

Barbara's mouth filled with sand as she bit the dust. Her eyes widened, and she rolled out of the way. Just as Shiva's other scythe buried itself where her skull had just been. She propped herself up on her forearms, and swung her legs around in a sweep kick. Hoping to knock her opponent's feet out from under her. But it was a predictable move, and Shiva dodged easily.

"I mean, honestly! Your fighting style is composed of motions designed for male fighters. Most likely modified for your smaller frame and heightened flexibility. But  _still!"_ Shiva snarled, and lunged forwards. "You are a living  _tragedy!_ To think, what you might have been capable of under the  _correct_ guidance!"

Barbara rolled out of the way. Her leg swiped out underneath her as she sought balance on the uneven ground. She'd lost one of her blades in the fall, but the one she still had twirled up towards her chest. Defending her center. "Under your guidance, you mean?"

Shiva's eyes lit up with a fire Barbara didn't recognize. " _Yes."_

She spun towards Barbara, and caught her jaw with a swift kick. "What did that man ever teach you, anyways? How to throw punches like a brute? How to hide away whatever talent you might have had under some false pretense of a moral code?"

Barbara let out a cry as Shiva stuck the tip of her scythe into her shoulder, pinning her to the ground. The assassiness planted her knee onto Barbara's chest, and leaned down, so that they were face to face.

"Have you ever thought—ever wondered—just how much you'd really be capable of?  _Without_ stifling yourself?" Shiva leaned forward, and pressed the blade in deeper, until Barbara could only feel white, searing pain. She let out a small cry of pain, and Shiva darkened. "They told me. Before our battle. How pathetic you were, how you've been limited and cut back all your life. They said defeating you would be simple."

_It should be simple,_ Barbara thought numbly. The assassiness could have ended this fight in seconds, but she was drawing it out. Enjoying it. Each hit she threw was tempered and controlled. Almost as if this wasn’t a fight; it was a game. And Shiva was toying with her.

The assassiness let out a breath, and reached behind her back to pull another blade—this one a small dagger in the shape of a leaf—from her uniform. She held it to Barbara's throat, and pressed in. Stinging pain blossomed across her skin. Panic flared, and she could feel her breathing cut off sharply.

Barbara whimpered. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she mentally apologized. To Dick. To Alfred. Jason, Tim, Steph, and Damian…

Was she about to see her parents again? Was she about to see Bruce?

Barbara felt the woman's breath against her ear before she heard her honeyed voice. "But I can see something deeper in you, Oracle. Something that's been there your whole life. Twisting and churning in the darkest parts of you. Just… _waiting…_ for its chance to come out."

"Lady," Barbara wheezed. Shapes danced on the backs of her eyelids, swirling and buzzing. She pressed the back of her head deeper into the sand, trying to ease the pressure on her trachea. "If I hear one more schpeel about my 'bloodthirstiness', I might actually kill you."

Her eyes snapped open, and she saw Shiva's satisfied, lazy smile. "Oh, you will. Of that, I have no doubt." The tension on her throat eased slightly. "But if ever you feel the need to seek out a teacher, my dear, don't hesitate to approach me."

Barbara's eyes widened. "We both know only one of us is walking away from this fight, Shiva."

"Hmm." Shiva cocked her head, her smile turning cat-like. "Very true. But I have no doubt that mere moments after my death, they'll toss me into the waters of the Lazarus Pit.  _You,_ however, would not be so fortunate." She leaned in closer. Barbara got the feeling that none of the onlookers could hear a word of their conversation, anyways, but Shiva seemed to take pleasure in the feeling of secrecy. "So," she continued. "As I am feeling particularly altruistic at the moment, I suppose you can have your first lesson  _now."_

_Lesson…_

Barbara remembered Cassandra's silent teachings. How the other girl had shown her to watch for the next move before it was made.

So she watched.

And she saw Shiva's shoulder twitch. Ever…so…slightly—

Barbara brought up her blade sharply. Shiva let out a shout as it split the skin of her forearm, and she dropped her dagger away from Barbara's throat.

The pain of the movement sent needles of white pain into Barbara's shoulder, and she gasped. But managed to jerk her hips to the side, toppling Shiva. Who was much more preoccupied with her arm, which shook as both women inspected it momentarily. Barbara could see the pink of bone through the pooling blood, but didn't feel any urge to wince or look away.

Instead, she pulled herself to her feet, yanked out the scythe, and frowned down at the assassiness.

Shiva's head jerked up. She launched to her toes, sending sand shooting into the air from the quick motion. Her chest heaved, and Barbara could tell she was trying to ease herself through the pain. With a quick-as-a-blink move of her foot, she stomped on the handle of her discarded scythe. It flipped out of the sand and into her waiting palm.

Barbara expected rage. She expected to see Shiva's features distorted with agony.

But the Destroyer only let out a low, chuckling laugh.

"Oh," she gasped. Barbara could hear the pain in her voice. Tempered, yes. But still there. She was panting, but still very much ready to kill. " _Very_ good. I think…there is hope…for you, yet."

"All that ranting about seeing potential. Teaching me." Barbara snarled, and raised her knife. "Distractions. You were about to slit my throat."

Shiva's twisted face registered delight.

But then, she surged forward.

Sand flew. Hair whipped through the air. Bodies spun. Feet arched up. Blades swiped. Flecks of blood from Shiva's wound spattered across Barbara's chin. She ignored it. Pressed her advantage. Sliced her dagger again towards her opponent's arm. Shiva hissed through her teeth, but continued to hit her back with strike after sweeping strike. And all of it with only one functional arm.

"You're right," the assassiness panted. She twirled through the air, and Barbara just barely managed to step under the woman's fatal kick. Blood rushed in her head as she whirled around. Brought her blade up just in time to keep Shiva's scythe from her left eye.

Both women's arms shivered from pain and fatigue as Shiva pressed down. Harder.  _Harder_. The gleam of light off the wicked point of the scythe made Barbara's nerves sing with adrenaline. It was bare millimeters away from her cornea. Her opponent bared her teeth in a determined grin. "I was going to cut your little throat. If you were naïve enough to let your guard down, then you would have deserved it…"

Okay.

Okay… _Okay._

Barbara huffed, and slid her blade sharply forward. At the same time, her head whipped back away from the weapon's sharp tip. Her dagger lodged itself into the small gap between Shiva's blade and its handle. And with that, she found leverage. Her arms jerked, spinning her blade, and Shiva's good arm.

To her credit, the assassiness held onto her weapon. But the effort was just enough of a distraction for Barbara to push to her feet, and throw her opponent off balance. Just long enough to hit her with a round kick to the side of the head.

Shiva rolled in the sand, but came up quick, blade ready. She laughed, wincing from the carpet of gravelly grains that stuck into her wound. "But you didn't disappoint me, did you, Oracle? You truly do have talent. No matter how repressed."

Barbara only glowered.

Shiva brought her scythe up close to her face, wounded arm hanging limply at her side. "I'll tell you what. You can have that first lesson, after all. And it's this—"

She launched forward again, once again on the offense. Barbara sidestepped at the last second, twirling behind the assassiness.

Who was already expecting it.

Before she had the chance to react, an ankle hooked around the back of Barbara's neck and jerked down hard. Barbara toppled to her knees. She hurried to tuck herself into a roll. Just before Shiva's blade chopped into the sand.

"It's  _what?_ " Barbara muttered, springing to her feet.

Shiva's arm jerked backwards, swinging her blade in an arc. Just inches from Barbara's larynx. "There's a place we all go, sweetheart. When we do what we do."

Barbara blocked another sweep of Shiva's scythe. The clang of metal on metal barely drowned out her dry retort. "When you kill people, you mean."

"Yes." Shiva sneered. Slowly, she stepped backward, chest heaving. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Shaky exhale. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, one more ready for use than the other. "And you've got one, too."

Barbara took three steps away. Her head was spinning as the adrenaline buzzed through her veins. It was making her shaky. Which meant that Shiva should have landed many more critical hits on her than she'd been hitting. The assassiness was going easy on her. And Barbara needed to find out why before this could go any further.

But the sharp ache in her shoulder was enough of a reminder that Shiva wasn't going to make this  _too_ easy.

"Got what?" she panted back. The hand holding her dagger twitched. "A happy place for the homicidal? Right."

"It's true." Shiva started to sidestep slowly. Her eyes were narrowed into watchful slits. She kept moving, and Barbara followed her lead, until the two women were circling each other carefully. Just waiting to pounce. "For some of us, it's boredom. Apathy. Who cares if there's one less life in this bleak, gray, &*$^%# world?"

Barbara's boot slid a little in the sand. "Your place sounds a lot like New Jersey."

"Hnn. I think yours…is…" Shiva's chin jerked to the side, and she studied her with a piercing side-glance. Barbara noticed her eyes taking in Barbara's stance. Her posture. The way her boots stalked through the sand. And then, the corners of her lips curled upwards. "Interesting."

Barbara raised her fist and her dagger, glowering. Her breathing had slowed, and now the adrenaline rush was starting to ebb a little. She was ready for round two, even if Shiva seemed content to keep on circling. Like a cornered wolf waiting for the chance to strike.

Barbara could see it in the way that Lady Shiva moved. Her movements were a lot like Cassandra's in their fluidity. As her opponent moved over the uneven ground, she didn't drag her feet through the sand like Barbara did; she was gliding. With narrowed eyes, Barbara loosened her own muscles as she circled. Let her feet step lighter and lighter until she was mirroring Shiva's posture and motions almost effortlessly.

And for the first time that night, Barbara knew that she could kill this woman. Not that she wanted to, and not even that she would. But her training was flowing back into her mind. All of the little directions and bits of guidance from her mentor—and all of the warnings:  _don't hit there, don't apply pressure there, kick too hard there, and x will happen…_  Barbara started to look at Shiva's body as something she could take apart, if only she could get close enough. Something that would shatter and crack under just the right pressure.

The cold calculation made something uncomfortable flutter in her stomach for a few seconds. But then it passed.

Her only question was this: was she willing to win this duel for her family, or let herself die under Shiva's blade to uphold Bruce's code of conduct?

"When I kill you," Shiva said lazily, snapping Barbara out of her thoughts, "I think I'll pay a visit to Gotham."

Barbara's breath stopped in her lungs. Her steps faltered a little, and she could tell that the assassiness noticed.

"Yes," she continued. Something lit up in her dark eyes. "I think I'll start with the big one. He's already died once. He'll die quickly this time…blade to the throat, I would say…but only because I need him out of the way to get to the other children…"

Barbara's knuckles turned red and pink against her blade's handle. "Shut up," she snapped.

"…and then, I think, the young detective. I'll slit him open…starting at his navel and all the way up to his chin…slow and simple, so that I can watch him squirm and hear what his pain sounds like…I'll make his little blonde ex watch while I rip out his intestines, then use them to strangle her. Nice. And. Slow." Shiva's grin was wide and predatory now. And Barbara knew that she wasn't joking; she'd seen the crime scene photos from Bruce's files. "And last but not least, the baby…I wonder how loud he'll scream when I use Batgirl's skull to—"

Barbara flew forwards.

She and Shiva went down into the sand together, rolling and kicking and snarling like two feral tigers. Barbara's blade drew blood. Shiva's scythe snicked into Barbara's flesh. But she didn't notice and didn't care as she struggled against the assassiness's powerful musculature. Her fingers curled savagely around Shiva's good wrist, and she thrust it into the sand. Pulled herself on top. Jammed her sharpened blade against the underside of the Destroyer's jaw. A role reversal of their positions just minutes earlier.

Barbara snarled through her teeth. "You're…bluffing."

Shiva's chin tipped up into the air. A laugh made the hairs on the back of Barbara's neck stand upright, prickling against her skin.

"Maybe so. But that's one way to get the blood pumping, isn't it?"

Barbara pressed the dagger's edge in deeper. The thought of this woman—this  _creature—_ taking even one step towards her siblings… She could feel the vibrations of Shiva's throat as she chuckled, low and purring.

"Everyone tells you," she told Barbara softly, "That they can see your  _bloodthirstiness_. They all claim that you're just like them."

"So, don't you start," Barbara snarled. Her eyes twitched towards her fallen dagger, lying in the sand just inches away. Resting by her ankle. A bead of blood traced down Shiva's pale neck.

The woman continued. "But they couldn't be more  _wrong."_

She faltered, letting the knife slip just a little. Not enough that Shiva could safely break out of Barbara's hold. But just enough that the assassiness's eyes widened by just a fraction. In the harsh light, her pupils contracted slightly.

"You, Oracle," she crooned, "Never wanted to hurt anybody.  _At first._  But you've seen this world. You've seen the leviathans and the gorgons who inhabit it. You  _know."_ With her injured hand, she slid another dagger out of her costume. Before Barbara could lean back or twist away, Shiva had it lodged right below her xiphoid. Right in the arch below her ribcage. Not piercing. But still there, just enough that she could feel the bite of the sharpened point through her tunic.

Barbara drew in a shaky breath.

"There is evil in this world, darling. So much of it. Always growing, always festering. And there's only one thing to do about it. One lasting solution." Shiva's eyes glittered. With menace. With purpose. And Barbara knew, could  _see,_ exactly what the woman was about to do. How with just one thrust, she would plunge the tip of her dagger up through her chest.

Then the fight would be over.

"Tell me. Tell me the solution." A grin. A glimmer of something Barbara couldn't identify. "And I'll tell you where it is _you_ go when you take life."

Barbara's fingers released Shiva's wrist, and she could feel her shoulders tense as she slumped forward.

Her free hand wandered.

"The solution?" Her voice was hollow. "Cut it out."

Shiva's smile stiffened, freezing on her face. Something in her eyes shattered as her pupils contracted to pinpricks of black. A guttural gasp gurgled out of her throat.

"That's…r-right," she whispered. "Your p-place…not anger..."

Barbara's fist was tight around the handle of her second dagger. Sweaty and white-knuckled, but relentless all the same. Without a reply, she thrust it deeper into Shiva's chest. Right where the assassiness had placed her own dagger on Barbara. The blade shivered a little as it sliced cleanly and too-easily through muscles and organs. Wet heat seeped over Barbara's knuckles and fingers, and she bit down hard on her tongue to keep from pulling away.

Shiva's hand wrapped around Barbara's left bicep. Her smile was still there as she tipped up her head. A stream of blood fell from one corner of her mouth. "You're afraid…my d-dear. T-terrified." A short breath of a laugh barked out of her throat. "That's why y-you're d-oing this. A-All of it—"

Barbara twisted her blade, and Shiva's eyes went round. Her head tipped back into the sand, and she gasped, making a sound that Barbara hoped she'd never hear again in her life.

But knew that she probably would.

"T-til—we meet…ag—"

Lady Shiva's head rolled to the side, eyes slitted and staring out at the crowd.

Barbara let out the breath she'd been holding. Her lungs burned almost as badly as her shoulder.

She released the blade, and pulled herself to her feet. Her knees wobbled, threatening to collapse out from underneath her as she came off of the largest adrenaline high she'd probably ever experienced.

Head spinning, hands shaking, breath hitching, she turned. Looked up at the platform. Blood dripped off her fingers like rain, landing in droplets on the sand below.

Talia was staring at her, awestruck. Mouth open. Fists tightening then opening by her sides.

Deathstroke was still staring. But there was something much more satisfied in his posture, now.

The man in the snowy owl mask was expressionless. His body language was equally so.

Cassandra's eyebrows lifted into a sympathetic arch, and she nodded, giving Barbara the only reassurance she could.

Ra's' nostrils flared.

But Barbara didn't care about these people. She didn't care about the silent assassins in a ring around her, even if some of them were reaching for their weapons. The passing thought flitted to her mind that maybe Ra's would go back on his end of the bargain. That he would raise his katana and order his League of Assassins to rush the circle and rip her to pieces. But she dismissed it with another sigh.

Her eyes narrowed, and she tipped up her chin. Her breath rattled as she took a shaky inhale, then said,

"I believe we had a deal, رئيس الشيطان."

 


	19. Desperate Measures Part 2

 

"You know, you're taking this, like,  _really_ well."

Magda clapped Dick on the back with one solid hit. Back when they were kids, ten-year age difference and all, it might have knocked him off the trapeze platform. His cousin had always been strong for her age, thanks to the years of rigorous upper-body strength training that came with being an acrobat. Not to mention the fact that Dick had been a scrawny little kid before puberty had finally kicked in.

But now, the most Magda got was an annoyed grunt.

"Seriously, though." She craned her neck, trying to meet his eyes. "When we first got here, I was pretty freaked out. But you're…actually pretty whelmed about the whole thing."

She used 'whelmed' so casually. It brought a flood of good memories rushing back to him. Dick's mom had been born to a Romani family in Eastern Europe. Richard and John Grayson were each half Romanian. So, as a result, both brothers and their wives had insisted on bringing their kids up speaking fluent Romanian and Romani. And since most of the other Haly's Circus members had backgrounds of some kind in both languages, English had never been much of a priority.

At least, until the kids began doing more and more American tours. Where they discovered that kids who came to watch the shows liked to have the chance to meet performers their own ages afterwards. So, John, Mary, Richard and Karla—along with Jack Haly—decided that it was time for the younger three members of the Flying Graysons to learn English.

Dick remembered spending hours and hours around the kitchen table of his family's train car. Open English textbooks, flashcards spread out over the chipped wooden tabletop. Sessions of watching English cartoons with his cousins. It was such a frustrating language. Too many words that meant the same thing, too many prefixes and suffixes. Past tense and future tense had been the absolute worst for him. But, slowly, they all started to get it together. As a game, they liked to take certain words and twist them around. ("Why 'overwhelmed?' 'Underwhelmed'? Why isn't anyone ever just 'whelmed'?  _Dis_ aster? What about just 'aster'? And every variation they could think of.) It made it easier to understand this new, complex language that was so different from their native tongues.

Dick shrugged, managing to shoot a small smile her way before he turned his attention back to the acrobats below them. His mom and Aunt Karla were doing backwards barrel rolls, side planches and lamp posts. Arms fluttering, legs sweeping, bodies arching. Showing off to his dad and Uncle Ricky, who were watching from the other platform.

Laughing. Smiling. Like the Fall had never happened.

"I guess," he finally said, eyes still tracing his mother's careful movements. "that I've just had more time to process this whole…" His fingers waved. "Situation. You know. So I'm not so… _'turbed_ …about everything."

A grin twitched at the corner of his mouth.

Magda's lips pursed, and she nodded. Unconvinced. But her eyes still sparkled. "Yee-ah. Sure, pip-squeak."

His mouth twitched. "You haven't called me that in…years."

"Haven't exactly been around, buddy. Sorry about that." She shrugged, and stepped forward. Her toes curled over the edge of the platform as she leaned out a little into the open air. It was a normal habit of hers. Aunt Karla and his mom had always said that Magda had the best balance of any of the Flying Graysons. But Dick still felt his muscles tense, and his arms darted up lightning fast.

He froze with his fingers just a few inches away from her shoulders. Both their eyes were wide.

Then, a line appeared between her eyebrows. "Oh, Dickie."

"Sorry," he mumbled, lowering his hands. His eyes swept the tent, the trapeze, the ring. Looking for anything to change the subject before his cousin could say anything else. They landed on the little girl, still starkly white against the shadows along the edges of the tent. She was watching the aerialists above with ease, and a small smile. Uncle Ricky had joined in their routine, and was swinging Aunt Karla up towards his mom's waiting arms.

Dick nodded towards her. "Who is that? She's been…sticking around me all day."

Magda was still watching him with a sad, wistful pout. But she turned to follow Dick's gaze, and her eyes widened slightly when she caught sight of the small child. "Oh. Sometimes that happens. People have little guides who lead them around and take care of them up here. At least until it's their turn to be born." She shrugged. "If I'm bein' totally honest, I don't really know how it all works, or why."

"Oh," Dick said. His shoulders relaxed.

"But you should go ask for her name." Magda nudged his shoulder. "Cause I'm pretty sure she was supposed to be your kid."

Dick almost fell off the platform. He wasn't sure if that would kill him or not (was there a 'death-after-death'?) but he pinwheeled his arms until he regained his balance. Then, whirled on Magda with slack-jawed shock.

" _What?"_

"The little kids running around all in white? They usually stick close to family." Magda paused. Then, turned to him slowly, waggling her eyebrows. "Oooh! Speaking of! I can't believe I actually almost forgot to tease you about your girlfriend! Can I? Is it too soon? Or…?"

She shoulder-checked him playfully, but he could tell her eyes were searching his face for any kind of warning. Some sign that bringing up his life, or…Barbara…was too painful.

If Dick was being honest, he wasn't even sure anymore. He thought of his brothers and little sister. And Alfred. He wondered if they were all okay. How they were going to take the news of him being gone—if they didn't know already. Dick could still remember how shaken they'd all been when Bruce had been killed. Jason didn't eat, Tim didn't sleep, Steph didn't talk, and Damian had no desire to do anything but lay on the living room couch and stare into the fireplace. It had taken weeks—and herculean efforts on his and Barbara's parts—to coax them back into routine.

What would Dick's death do to them?

And Babs…oh, Babs…

Dick could still see her tear-streaked face above his. Just as he could feel himself starting to slip. She begged him to stay, told him she loved him. He could feel her mounting panic even as he felt himself getting weaker and weaker. And then…

He was glad. That Barbara's angelic face was the last thing he'd ever seen.

But knowing that she was probably in so much pain, shattering into millions of tiny pieces right now…

Dick swallowed hard. "I'm fine, Mags. Promise."

She let out a groan of relief, head lolling back. "Ugggh, good. You have no  _idea_ how ticked I was when we all found out about that Barbara girl, and that Johnny and I had to miss out on all of the teasing with your first date, your first  _kiss,_ your first—"

"Wait." Dick frowned, and held up a hand. "Where is Johnny, anyways?"

Magda's little brother. Dick's older cousin. That horrible night, when Tony Zucco had tampered with the trapeze, six of the seven Flying Graysons had plummeted to their deaths. Dick had flown down the support pole's ladder, and knelt in the blood and gore of his family, anguished and tiny and afraid and horrified…

He'd seen all their faces. Uncle Ricky. Aunt Karla. Magda. Dad. Mom. And Johnny, too. Dick had stared right into Johnny's unseeing eyes, choosing to focus on that instead of the twisted limbs…

Johnny should be here.

"Oh," Magda said, voice pitching slightly higher. "He's, uh, off in another section right now."

"Another section?"

"Of heaven? Wherever this place is?" Magda waved her hand. "It's not important. I've got so much to ask you, and—"

Dick interjected. "I think it's  _kinda_ important, Mags."

"Fine! We'll get to it, okay?" She slumped down, sitting on the edge of the platform. Slowly, Dick joined her, feeling the familiar ridges in the metal underneath his palms as he leaned back. Their feet swung in tandem over the side, and Dick glanced over at his cousin. Who huffed, and blew away a few red strands of hair that had come loose from her bun. "It's just…we've been watching over you your whole life, Dickie. We watched you grow up with Mr. Wayne and Alfred. You're so tall, now, by the way! Like, holy  _cow!_ We watched you make friends—like that Wally guy, he seems like a good egg—and help other lost kids. I'm especially a fan of Stephanie. She reminds me of another awesome motor-mouth…"

Dick smiled, and nudged her shoulder with his.

She continued without missing a beat. "You've been through so much. You're a freakin'  _superhero_ for crying out loud! Uncle John and Aunt Mary are really proud of you, you know. And we just…we've missed it. We've missed you, pip-squeak, but we've also missed  _out._ I never got to tease you about your crush on Barbara, and then when you were dating her, I didn't get to show her all of your embarrassing baby pictures—like that one with you in the clown outfit, when you were five…"

He shuddered. "I thought Mom made you promise never to mention that."

"Nee-yope. That would be  _you._ But that's beside the point!" Her fingers grasped dramatically at the air. "You were so happy! You were helping people! Not to be totally cliché, here, but you had your whole life ahead of you, Dickie! You were going to get  _married!"_

Dick deflated slightly. "I know, Mags. There was a lot I was looking forward to. But…seeing you guys again has been incredible. I never thought…"

He trailed off, and watched as his father caught the swinging bar of the trapeze out of the air. His face was split into the most dazzling smile. Not the one he used on the audience, bright and fake like a spotlight, but the genuinely beaming one that was as real as the sunshine. The one for his family.

John Grayson swung out into the air, flipping his legs over the bar as easily as another man might prop them up on a footrest to watch TV. His body was streamlined as he arched his back, arms out, fingers waving. Waiting for his wife to catch his hands.

And catch she did. Mary flew up to meet him, ankles held by her sister-in-law. Her smile was as beautiful as the moon on a clear night as she twined her fingers with John's, and trusted her partner and husband to never let her go. That smile, that brilliant smile, was never faked, onstage or off.

His voice cracked when he finally spoke. "I missed you. All of you. You don't know how much I—how much I wish—"

Magda leaned over, and wrapped him in a gigantic hug.

She held him for a few minutes. They could hear the soft creak of the trapeze, and the sound of the acrobats moving and laughing and bantering. ('Well, brother of mine, looks like you're getting slower and slower every single day!' 'True, true, John-o. You might've got the talent in this family, but somebody had to get the good looks!' 'Sweetheart, I love you with all of my heart, but John definitely has you beat in both departments.' 'Oh my! Looks like you're outnumbered, Richard!') Familiar and soothing. The sounds of a family Dick hadn't had since he was a seven-year-old boy.

"Go on," Magda said into his chest. Her voice was a little bit muffled by his shirt. "You know you want to."

His cousin helped him up. Then, called out to her mother that 'Dickie was ready to give the ropes a whirl'. Karla and Richard swung up and planted their feet on the platform, patting Dick's back as they moved to stand by their daughter.

Dick's mother and father smiled up at him as one bar swung up.

He snatched it in one fist. A movement as familiar to him as breathing. And he couldn't help the grin that split his face as he looked into his parent's eyes.

"You ready, son?" his father called, beaming twice as bright.

"Come on, îngerașul!" Mary Grayson looked like an angel herself as she arced upwards, arms spread, fingers outstretched, hair falling out of its bun, and white ribbons fluttering behind her. Her eyes were just the same as the ones that had looked down at Dick as he was tucked into bed at night. Her smile was the smile he had seen when he'd tried his first tightrope routine.

Dick leapt over the side, and felt the tug in his stomach as gravity and momentum battled for his swing.

He laughed, and let out a whoop, loud enough to make him jump a little.

Dick let go of the bar.

Reached for his parent's hands.

His fingertips had barely brushed his mother's when he felt the cold. Searing and jagged. Bubbling and bursting in his chest and spreading outwards like a fire. Dick let out a cry, sharp and pained, as his mother's hands wrapped around one wrist.

They swung him up towards the platform. Laid him down while he shivered uncontrollably. His limbs shook violently as his parents tried to pin him down, and keep him from rolling off the platform.

"What's happening?" Karla demanded. Her voice sounded like it was underwater. "This isn't supposed to—"

"Dickie!?" Magda cried.

Dick's back arched as he let out a scream. The worst pain he'd ever felt—worse than getting shot, stabbed, or beaten—pierced through his heart and seared up into his head. His eyes. His teeth. Spread all the way down to his fingers and toes until they were buzzing with the coldest, most bursting flame he'd ever felt in his life—or his death.

"Dick?" His mother's voice. Her hand rested on his face, and he ripped his eyes open to look up at her. He saw John and Mary Grayson looking down at him with loving concern. Richard and Karla Grayson bent above them, begging to know if he was alright. Magda Grayson, with her hands over her mouth and eyes wide in shock.

"This—" she gasped. "This is what happened to—"

Dick heaved a gasp as he felt something hook into his ribcage. Like fingers or talons trying to rip him upwards. His head beat backwards against the platform. His body shook with convulsions.

And then, suddenly, the little girl was there. Her eyes were big and blue, and she wrapped a hand around his wrist. Her fingers were cool and soft. "Get to the circus, Daddy," she whispered. "And stay strong."

"I—" he breathed, through teeth ground so tight together they might have shattered, and eyes brimming over with moisture, "I—love—you all—so mu—"

His mother's face was the last thing he saw before the tug tore him away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Barbara's face was expressionless as they lowered Dick's body into the pit. Chains rattling as the wheel was turned, easing the grated metal stretcher into the iridescent pool. As the water closed over his face, Barbara felt a twist in the pit of her stomach.

This was what she'd wanted. This was what she'd fought for. What she'd… _killed_  for.

Numbly, she glanced down at her hand. She could still see the blood in the whorls and swirls of her bare fingertips and in the palm of her hand. Rusty and darkening more and more every minute that passed. She could still hear the sound of Shiva's rattling breaths, and see the snap in her eyes as the end approached.

She'd killed before. But that had been different. Her victim had been an evil man, who had been responsible for the deaths of hundreds. Who had taken Barbara's baby sister and tortured her until she died.

Black Mask's life had ended with a push, a fall, a scream, and the thud of a body against cold pavement.

Shiva's had ended in blood. Hot and gushing over Barbara's bare fingers as she twisted her knife until the life went out of her enemy's eyes.

And, why had she done it? Was Shiva right? Had she flown all this way, dragged her partner's body thousands of miles, fought tooth and nail with the world's deadliest assassiness, and broken her family's cardinal rule—because of fear?

What was she afraid of? Losing Dick?

Or that it had been her fault? James had pulled a gun and she froze. Useless. Unable to do more than stop short. Just like that night, all those years ago, when she'd opened the library door and seen the Joker's leering smile as he raised his pistol and—

"Fear not, child," Ra's Al Ghul muttered. His baritone voice buzzed low, echoing slightly in the cavernous underground room that housed the Lazarus Pit. He turned his head, fixing his cold gaze on her. But Barbara didn't look up, or even flinch as he continued. "You have honored our agreement, so I will let you and your lover leave in peace."

The pit bubbled slightly as Dick Grayson's corpse was fully submerged. The servants stepped back slowly, hands folding back into their robes. Talia swept past them, circling the pit like an edgy alley-cat waiting to see what would emerge. Barbara watched the woman's eyes fix themselves on her partner, and noted Ra's' statement with some relief. Ra's would let them leave. Talia would let them leave, too, even if she'd rather slit their throats and be done.

"Your skill is rudimentary. Childish. However…you are progressing rapidly."

Was that a shred of respect? Barbara almost looked up at the Demon's Head.

"You would gain much by learning from my assassins," Ra's continued. His face swam in the ghostly green light emanating off the water in front of them. "One day, perhaps you may find yourself—"

"Like you said," Barbara snapped. Her voice was as thin as a thread. "I kept my end. Our business is complete as soon as my partner emerges from that pit."

Ra's didn't rise to her interruption. He only made a sound of annoyance at the back of his throat.

Talia's footsteps were becoming slower and slower as she circled. Barbara watched her eyes narrow. She leaned out over the sloshing water, and squinted into their depths.

"Father," she said, low and stern, "There is something wrong."

"What is it?" came Ra's' tired reply.

Talia's emerald eyes flicked up at them, and her painted lips cracked open slightly to respond.

But before she had the chance, the water exploded.

Dick bolted upright, churning the water around his legs. Droplets flung out of the pit, and sizzled against Barbara's tunic, stinging as it ate through the fabric. Steam curled in the air, and she and Ra's both tensed. Dick's breathing was erratic as his eyes swept the cavern, arms out to his sides as if ready to hit something.

Barbara let out a cry of relief and stepped forward. But Ra's seized her forearm quickly.

"No," he snapped. "This is not right. It is too soon for the—"

Dick roared, and took a flying leap off the metal platform. The thing made an unholy screech as it swung on ancient metal chains. He flew through the air, and came down hard on the edge of the pit, limbs scrambling and fingers scraping for purchase on the loose stones.

A few of the guards hurried forward. They reached down to help Dick up, or maybe restrain him. But her partner's eyes flashed as he burst upwards. His fingers snagged one of the men's necks.

Every muscle in his body was tensed. Powerful and ready to kill. She could see the veins standing out under the skin of his bicep as he squeezed the man's neck. His face was hard and manic, like a madman craving blood. Barbara felt fear rise up in the back of her throat, and surged forwards, ripping herself out of Ra's Al Ghul's grasp.

"Dick!" she cried.

His head whipped around. Almost mechanically. As her partner's gaze fixed itself on Barbara, she fell back slightly.

His eyes were bright gold. Then he blinked. And they were an unnatural shade of green.

_Blink._ Gold.

_Blink._  Green.

He opened his mouth and let out a bloodcurdling scream. Beads of saliva flew from his mouth, and the man he was holding collapsed with a wheeze as his fingers came undone. Then, he surged towards Barbara, hands out and curled into claws.

She didn't protest as he rammed into her like a speeding train and knocked her to the rocky ground. Didn't fight back when he wrapped both of his fists around her throat. She didn't even cry out when he started to squeeze. And while she was aware of servants and assassins crowding around them, trying to rip her partner off of her, all she could do was stare into his shifting eyes.

"Dick," she squeaked, breathless as his grip tightened. White spots were bursting in her vision like fireworks. She raised her hands, resting them on his wrists. Gently.

Her partner was growling at her. Like a rabid dog. The hatred in his gaze made her flinch as she watched his irises snap between gold and green. Every few seconds, his head would jerk to the side erratically, before coming back to focus on her.

"Please," she whispered. "You… _ggkk_ … _know me_."

Talia's hands were on Dick's shoulders. She was shouting something, and doing her best to tear him off of Barbara's body. The fact that Dick didn't even budge attested to the inhuman strength coursing through him. (But then, Barbara had more than enough evidence to go on in that regard…)

Her head was starting to hurt, like someone had ripped it open and stuffed it full of cotton. Her hands trailed down to Dick's, and she weakly pried at his fingers. Her breath wouldn't come, and her heart was jackhammering as if her body was starting to realize that it was dying.

"— _Wingnut_ —" she managed to force out. But it took the rest of her air.

Her hands fell limply to the ground.

Dick's pupils shrank, and the snarl melted off his face. His breathing slowed slightly, devolving from roaring pants to soft gasps. As he squinted his eyes shut, his face screwed up into something pained and familiar.

Then, when they fluttered open, they were cerulean blue.

And they widened in horror.

Dick's hands tore away from her neck as if they'd been burned. He fell backwards, sending loose gravel skittering into the pit, and let out an unrecognizable sound.

" _Babs!?"_ he cried. He reached for her.

Then fell flat on his face, revealing a tensed Cassandra standing at ready attention behind him. Her arm was raised, two fingers extended. She must have managed to get one of his pressure points. The girl raised one eyebrow, and moved her shoulders. Her message was more than clear:  _'This is the man you fought the Destroyer for?'_

Barbara tipped back her head, and took in a heaving gasp. Waited for the sparkles to clear from her eyes as she heard footsteps approach. Then, finally, pulled herself upright, wincing at the pain in her temples.

"Ra's," she said, voice low and rasping. Her hands tightened into fists. "We had a &*#^  _deal."_

The sound of a sword sliding from its sheath forced her to look up. Right into the Demon Head's cruel gaze. Talia followed suit, as well as every other masked person in the room.

"Watch your tone, child," Ra's snapped. "I honored our deal. Your lover is alive, and restored." His expression darkened, but Barbara didn't even blink. "It was  _you_ that failed to mention that Richard is a Talon."

Barbara winced, and rubbed two fingers against the side of her head. "What are you talking about?"

In reply, the Demon's Head marched over to Dick's side, and lifted him upright by the hair. Barbara started to snarl at the man, but paused in confusion as Ra's Al Ghul forced Dick's mouth open with two fingers.

"Come. Here," he snapped.

Barbara approached. Ra's indicated something in her partner's mouth, and she bent her head to peer in, cautiously tensing away from the older man.

There. In the back. One of his molars had cracked, revealing slivers of brown. She looked up at Ra's, frowning in confusion. He ignored her, and dug his finger inside, scraping away at the broken tooth before she had the chance to say a word. This time, when she inspected it, she could see clearly that the tooth had been covered with a thin layer of enamel. Scuffed away, it revealed a tooth underneath shaped completely from bronze.

Stamped on the side, she could see a tiny emblem of an owl with its wings out in flight.

"It is standard issue for the operatives of the Court of Owls," Ra's snapped. "When activated, it begins the process of restoring the owner to life." His tone darkened as he added, "Or, at least, to an imitation of life."

"Violence is normal, when one emerges from the pit," Talia chimed in. Her scowl was venomous as she raised her katana. It reflected the shimmering light from the pit, and looked very, very sharp. "Your Jason Todd exhibited similar...behavior. Though  _he_ killed three of our men before we could restrain him."

Ra's bared his teeth. "But this is different. The Lazarus Pit does not mix well with other restorative methods. I do not know if or how this will affect Richard in the future, but I can assure you that you have made a grave error in coming here."

Barbara took a step back. "How do you know—?"

"Leave us," Talia snapped. "Before we simplify things by throwing you both to the jackals."

Barbara frowned. She turned to Cassandra. Spread her feet and squared her shoulders.

' _Will you come with us?'_

Cassandra shook her head. The tilt of her head suggested hesitation. And a little bit of pain.

' _Please.'_ Barbara begged. _'We'd protect you.'_

' _I can't. Leave now, before they harm you.'_

"Enough," Ra's thundered. He thrust Dick forward, and Barbara lunged to catch him before he hit the ground. If possible, he was even heavier unconscious than he'd been when he was dead.

Awkwardly, she propped him up on her shoulder, and turned to leave.

' _Gotham City',_ she told Cassandra silently, with the tilt of her head, and the movement of her feet.  _'Find us there if you ever change your mind.'_

And as soon as she was almost out of the room, she turned her face slightly, bent over from Dick's dead weight. "Talia," she said softly, "Your son sends you his regards."

The woman's face softened slightly. "He—"

"—says you're a terrible mother," Barbara snapped.

Then, like any person with half a brain would do in a similar situation, got the #$%% out of there.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Were you satisfied?" Ra's Al Ghul snarled. "Was that display enough to quell your curiosity?"

He turned slightly, away from the window. The shape of the Oracle's stolen plane was a rapidly shrinking speck on the glowing horizon. The sight hurt his eyes, and he chose to fix them instead on the man leaning back in one of his chairs. So arrogant, and far too comfortable. Like a lamb who had strayed into the den of a lion and decided to call the place home.

He was dressed in a finely made American suit, and wore a tie-pin shaped like a cut diamond. His unnerving mask stared blankly back at Al Ghul as his head cocked slightly to the side.

"Hmm. It  _was_ most interesting," the man replied easily. "Personally, my favorite part was when your woman bled out on the ground. It would seem that our chosen champion is progressing just as we thought she would. Though, I suspect, there is more work to be done."

Ra's sighed. His fingertips brushed over his desk, and he briefly met eyes with the third man in the room.

Deathstroke said nothing. Only leaned back against the wall lazily. The old mercenary could likely smell the money in the air like an oncoming storm. He, at least, would be compensated handsomely for this foolish endeavor.

Still, there was much to be gained. Especially if certain theories of his were correct.

For instance, it might be useful to have an extra piece on the chessboard, to maneuver where he so pleased. Especially if the enemies' king truly was still in the game.

"Yes," he replied, drawling. "Although, I can't help but wonder why I continue to assist the Court of Owls when they have yet to show me results. Of  _any_  kind."

The owl-man huffed, and steepled his fingers. His elbows rested carefully on his chair's armrests, and Ra's Al Ghul felt the sudden urge to slice through them with one wave of his katana. However, urges must be quelled. Especially in circumstances such as these.

"On behalf of the Court of Owls," he drawled. "I can assure you that you  _will_ see results. Patience is key, of course. And we also require a few more resources before you start to see a return on your investment." The man inclined his head towards Deathstroke, who merely let out a soft grunt in response.

Ra's' blood boiled. Not one other person in this compound would dare to speak to him with such presumption and haughtiness! He'd already endured the Detective's eldest protégé, and her sharp tongue. But another disrespectful, arrogant, whining brat—?

"Of course," Ra's Al Ghul purred. His fingernails dug into the fine finish of the desktop. "Slade will do anything that you ask, of course. Though I will warn you that his fee is steep."

"Of course," The owl echoed, mocking his tone. Then, "Money is of no consequence to us."

"Right." Al Ghul's eyes narrowed. "But I will warn you. I have given you information, access, operatives, and now one of my finest assassins. In return, you have inconvenienced me and taken my help for granted. You have also withheld vital information from me, which I will not stand for."

"If you are referring to Grayson, we couldn't—"

Ra's' hand slapped the tabletop. The man flinched, but Deathstroke just stared between the two men, as if watching a boring game of tennis. "I will not stand for it!" he repeated, each word pounding out with a staccato emphasis. "Take your 'resources'. Break who you need to break, and conscript who you need to conscript. But I  _will_ collect on my investment, mark my words. If not, then I will collect the heads of every single member of the Court of Owls!"

The man stood, shakily. "I—"

"Leave," Ra's commanded. "Before I kill you where you stand."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Barbara drove, despite her partner's protests.

For the first hour of the flight, Barbara had held Dick close, arms wrapped around his neck tightly, as if letting go would allow him to slip away again. His arms went around her waist, pulling her close as he buried his face in the crook of her shoulder. They breathed together, slow and steady. Feeling each other's skin and heartbeats, still in denial that the other was real.

But they were together. Nothing else was important.

The second hour, she asked him what he remembered. He frowned. Said he didn't remember much. She wasn’t sure if she believed him.

They'd returned the jet, but stole a car from the airport parking lot (making sure to leave an  _'IOU one Ford Odyssey'_ note). Dick had been morally torn. Barbara hadn't.

Now they drove down the highway that would lead into Gotham City. Both were dressed in fresh tshirts, jackets, and pairs of jeans that they'd picked up along the way. (The woman behind the counter had given them strange looks—and reached for the phone—but Barbara was quick to assure her that they were just cosplayers that had been separated from their group. Which had seemed to satisfy the cashier just enough to let them pay and leave.)

She signaled numbly, and switched into the next lane that would take them off on the next exit.

Dick was staring at her. Specifically, at the necklace of pink and purple bruises around her throat. She caught him wincing out of the corner of her eye.

"It wasn't you," she said softly, brushing her hair over her neck with one hand.

Dick started, then relaxed slightly. "Babs, I swear I don't know what happened. The last thing I remember was dying. Then I woke up and my hands were…" He trailed off, and his fingers curled in his lap as he whispered. " _I'm so sorry."_

"Pfft, don't be." She shrugged it off. "We both know I've gotten worse."

Barbara turned off on the exit, and pumped the brakes to slow the van down. "Besides. You're back, now. And that's all that matters."

They missed the turn that would take them down towards Wayne Manor. Dick noted it with a frown, and shot her a confused glance. Barbara wove through traffic easily, and her eyes scanned the street signs.

Dick cleared his throat. "Where—?"

"Gotham General."

"Why?" he demanded, frowning. "Babe, I told you, I'm completely fine. The Pit took care of everything, and—"

"I've pegged everybody down at the hospital," she cut in, waving a hand. "They'll want to see us again. Especially Damian."

There was also the added benefit of getting her shoulder stitched up. She could feel her head spinning, and wasn't sure if she was still light-headed from Dick's attack, or if the blood-loss was starting to get to her. She'd been able to stem the flow by tying the cape Ra's had given her tightly over the wound, and covering it with her jacket. But she could already tell she'd bled through at least one layer.

And Damian… She prayed that her baby brother was alright. She'd been so determined to get help for Dick that she'd barely paused to consider the fact that Damian Wayne might never have made it out of that basement. Her only ray of hope was the fact that all of her siblings' tracker chips had pinged on the south side of Gotham General—including Damian's—which surely wouldn't be the case if he was…

He was okay. He had to be okay.

"Damian," Dick whispered, "Oh,  _$#*^!_ Is he okay? I didn't even—I…"

"I'm sure he's fine," Barbara replied as she pulled into a turning lane.

"You're sure—? Wait, you don't know either?" Dick turned his whole body towards her. His eyes were wide, and doubly scared. "Babs. They don't know, do they? About…what happened?"

She grit her teeth, and turned sharply before a scowling woman in another minivan could surge forwards. They jerked in their seats, but Dick continued to stare.

"Babs," he demanded.

"No!" she snapped. "And that's how it's going to stay. Got it?"

Her tone was harsher than she wanted it to be. Dick's eyes widened a little as he reared back, stung. Barbara inhaled deeply through her nose. Her hands squeaked on the steering wheel cover as she clenched her fists. Briefly, her eyes fluttered shut.

"I'm sorry," she said, forcing a level tone. Panic was welling in the back of her throat, and she tried to force it down. But the thought of facing her family, of trying to act like everything was completely normal when she'd just…when she'd…

Dick said nothing. Just frowned, and turned around in his seat to watch the buildings and pedestrians streak by through the passenger window.

A knot curled in the pit of her stomach. "Dick…I'm—"

"It's fine," he said sharply, shrugging one shoulder. "No big deal."

Barbara bit her tongue as they turned into the hospital parking lot.

Checking in was simple. When Dick gave his name, the nurse at the front desk gaped, and reached for a phone as soon as they turned away. Which meant they had roughly twenty-three minutes before the press or the police showed up. Fifteen, if it was Vicki Vale who caught wind of their sudden reappearance.

Wordlessly, they navigated the halls and dodged past rushing nurses and orderlies. Their eyes glanced over the room numbers as they searched the floor. Barbara brushed her knuckles against Dick's in a wordless apology. Then, his fingers slipped into hers and he gave her hand a small squeeze.

They finally turned a corner, and saw Terry and Nightshade standing outside one of the rooms. Both men glanced up, then stiffened. Terry grinned, and pulled himself up off the wall he'd been leaning against.

"There you are," he said warmly, turning to his partner. "See? Told you they'd be fine."

Nightshade hummed. He was studying Barbara carefully, and a line appeared between his brows. Especially as he caught sight of the bruises on her neck and underneath her eyes. When his gaze flicked down to her shoulder, the line deepened.

"'Cause, I mean, if they weren't, then how would you explain M—"

The older man clapped a hand over Terry's mouth, and nodded to Barbara. "We're going to go and find a doctor for your shoulder. Alright?"

Barbara opened her mouth. She wanted to ask how he could have known, but decided against it when she saw the look on Dick's face. Instead, she hummed slightly in agreement, and reached for the door handle.

Dick frowned. "What's wrong with your—?"

But before he had the chance to finish, Barbara had pushed open the door.

All of the room's occupants glanced up sharply. Tim was sitting by the bed with an open book clutched in his hands. He must have been reading aloud, because his voice cut off abruptly, and his jaw dropped open all the way when he saw them. Steph dropped her latte. It splattered against the floor as she exploded out of her chair to throw her arms around Dick's shoulders.

"You're alive!" she squealed. "Oh thank g—"

She buried her face into his chest, muffling the rest of her sentence.

Barbara glanced over at the bed, and met her youngest brother's eyes. Of their own volition, her feet moved her to the bedside, and she reached down to lay a gentle hand on one of Damian's bruised cheeks.

He was in pretty bad shape. Though, despite the stitches and the bruises that crisscrossed his skin, Damian was in a much better state than she'd suspected.

"Hello, Delphi," he said, blinking up at her. The sound of his voice—strained and grating—made something twinge in her heart.

"Oh, Dami." She smiled fondly, and laid her hand on his shoulder. "Glad to see you're okay."

Only then, dropping her hand, did she notice the boy sitting next to Tim. He was small and skinny, dressed in a blue flannel shirt that seemed two sizes too big. He stared up at her with large navy-blue eyes and a dazed look on his face. Barbara recognized him instantly from the days of research and data compilation for the League's Summit.

"Hi," Jon Kent squeaked, waving a hand up at her.

Someone stood up straight over by the flatscreen TV on the wall, and Barbara looked up. Instantly, her shoulders tensed. The man was dressed in a crisp white shirt, pressed slacks, and a blue and red tie with little yellow triangles (subtle much?). He met her eyes, and his face drained completely of color.

"Clark," she said, voice clipped.

Clark Kent adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses and cleared his throat. "Barbara. I'm happy to see that you and Dick are both—"

"Get out."

All eyes in the room fastened on her, but Barbara didn't care. She wrapped her fingers around the bed's siderail for support, and glowered in Superman's direction. The Man of Steel was gaping back at her, mouth opening and closing like a landed fish gasping for breath.

"I don't—"

"Belong here?" she snapped. "You're right. I thought Dick and I made it clear that you're not welcome in Gotham. And you  _especially_ are not welcome in this room."

Tim blinked up at her, shocked. "Babs, they're just—"

Barbara held up a hand, scowling. Tim fell silent, lips pursed and eyes wide.

For a few moments, the room was completely silent. Clark's gaze darted from Barbara to Dick to Tim to Stephanie and finally over to Damian and Jon. Slowly, his shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry. Jon just wanted to come say hi to Damian."

Barbara opened her mouth to respond, but didn't get the chance. The door flew open again. This time, it was Jason who strode through, holding a large grease-stained paper bag in one hand and a cardboard drink carrier in the other. The rich, heavy smell of burgers and fries wafted through the air.

"Welp, crew," he groaned, looking down as he shut the door with the back of his foot. "I picked us up some lunch, so—"

He looked up.

Jason didn't drop the food or the drinks, but he did dump them into Stephanie's arms (she accepted the precious food gratefully) and barreled forward, wrapping his older brother in a bear-hug. Dick's eyes shot open wide, and he carefully patted Jason's back, shooting Barbara a dazed glance.

Then it was her turn. Jason's arms crushed her in a gigantic embrace. She winced a little when he hit her shoulder, but tried to get her arms up far enough to hug him back.

His grin was wide when he stepped back, but it faltered as he took in her face, her neck, and her apparel. His expression hardened into confusion as he glanced back at Dick, then at her, then back at Dick again.

"What happened?" he asked. His voice was soft enough that Barbara blinked in surprise.

Then, she bit her lip.

Jason got the message, and straightened. "Everybody out."

Tim sat up. "What?" he asked, at the same time as everyone else in the room.

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose, scowling. "Do I need to say it again?" he barked. "Everybody out,  _now!"_

It was his Red Hood Voice™, and it was enough to clear the room. Everyone shuffled out one after the other, shooting Jason various glances ranging from open confusion, to annoyance, to disdain. Dick paused at the doorframe. "Me too?"

Jason nodded curtly, and Dick frowned. With a glance Barbara's way, he slipped out the door, carefully letting it click behind him.

Now, the only people in the room were Jason, Barbara, and Damian (who couldn't have left the room if he'd tried). Jason was watching her with open expectation, arms crossed over his chest as he frowned.

"Todd, Delphi," Damian said, voice barely above a whisper. "I trust you have a good reason for sending Jon away."

Barbara frowned.

"I guess it goes without saying," Jason said, tone low and menacing. "That you owe us an explanation."

She pulled out another chair, moving it over to the bed. Damian was watching her, too, but his expression was a lot more careful and controlled. Suspending judgment until he heard what it was she had to say.

"An explanation?" Barbara asked tiredly. She laid her elbows on her knees, letting her shoulders slump forwards. "Which part do you need explained?"

Jason shifted on his feet, letting out a sigh through his nose. "Well, I'd like to know why you're so beat-up looking, for one. The blood soaking through your shirt's another good question, but I'm guessing it's more of a follow-up. But, hey, I mean, let's start with why you disappeared on us."

Damian nodded curtly. "We feared the worst. James Gordon still hasn't been caught."

"And no B.S. about 'following a lead' or whatever," Jason snapped, as soon as Barbara opened her mouth to respond. "Because I  _saw_ Dick's tracker chip go offline."

The youngest's eyes shot open wide, and his head swiveled towards Barbara. The pure shock and anguish on the kid's face hit her like a blow.

"Delphi," he said softly. "Please. Tell me you didn't go to my grandfather. Tell me Grayson didn't…?"

Jason was looking at her expectantly. Searching her face. Her expression. Her posture. Then, his face went slightly slack, just enough that she could tell he'd confirmed his suspicions. "He never made it out of that kill-room, did he? You went after Gordon, Gordon killed Dick and escaped. And you…you couldn't let that go, could you?"

Her head jerked up. "What was I supposed to do, Jay? Huh? Should I have just let him die? We  _just_ lost Bruce, and—"

"Shut up!" Jason snapped. He ran his fingers through his hair, teeth grinding together. The other two stared at him in open shock. Barbara's jaw hung open as she gripped the armrests of the chair with white knuckles.

"Jaybird?" she asked softly.

"Don't," he breathed, lowering his hands. "Bring B-man into this. Please. And don't pretend like you didn't have a choice. Cause you did." His green eyes shot up, meeting hers with a heated glare. Barbara could remember a time, years ago, when they'd been electric blue. After his death—after the Lazarus Pit—they'd been stained a deep green. Just like Ra's. And Talia. And even Damian. When he opened his mouth to speak again, his voice was hoarse. Choked with an emotion that Barbara couldn't name. "Barb, you don't  _understand._ The pit…it changes you. Brings out your worst parts. Gives you nightmares. You…can't understand what you've done to Dick. You just  _can't."_

"It was different," Barbara said dully, wringing her hands together in her lap. "He came back…in a different way."

"No." Jason looked away. "He came out of that pit. And so help me, if we have to deal with a rabid Grayson, then I can't—" He cut off, scowling.

Damian shifted, pulling himself into a more upright position. "Delphi," he said, "My grandfather doesn't grant any sort of favor without wanting something in return."

Both boys stared at her.

"He owed me a favor," she replied, voice hollow.

"Bull. $#*^." Jason's tone cracked like a whip. "What was it really?"

Barbara was silent.

But that was something that Jason was not in the mood for. "What'd he want, Barb?"

No answer.

" _What'd he make you do?_ "

Their eyes pierced into her, and she couldn't stand it. She'd come here to see her brothers and sister. Make sure that they were all okay. Try to find some forgiveness for leaving them alone. But Barbara hadn't expected—or wanted—an interrogation. And she could feel her eyes starting to sting from some unnamed emotion bubbling up inside of her.

And so, Barbara burst into tears.

Her shoulders spasmed as she gasped for breath. Each inhale was a squeaking, desperate plea for air, and she clapped her hands over her face. The full weight of the last two days, of all that had happened, all that she'd  _done,_ started to sink in. Slowly, at first. Then it hit her like a speeding train, and she doubled over.

"Barb?" Jason's voice took on a softer tone. Almost scared. "Oh, $#*^, Babs. I'm sorry."

She could feel one of his hands on her back.

"Delphi?" came Damian's weak voice.

"Babs. Talk to us. Please. I'm sorry. Did he—?"

A sob ripped out of her throat, and she shook her head. Slowly at first. Then erratically. Her breathing was staggered and desperate, and she could feel herself slipping into hysteria.

Shiva's eyes. Cracked and empty. The feel of the woman's blood pulsing out over her fingers as she thrust her blade in deeper. The sound she'd made…oh,  _& *#..._

Her breathing went first. Her chest was hollowed out and she couldn't draw a breath in, no matter how hard she tried. Panic surged in her throat, and she felt her heart pound against her ribs. Barbara opened her mouth, dropping her hands. She gasped. No air came.

Her head spun like she was caught on a runaway carousel. She could feel her fingers buzzing.

Oh,  _& *#._

She'd  _killed_ someone…

"Todd, get a doctor,  _now!"_

"Sis? Barb?  _Barb?"_

Barbara collapsed sideways.

She hit the floor, and the rest of the world cut out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, these last two chapters were kinda depressing. BUT just bear with me. If you're still reading this mess, then thanks from the bottom of my heart! :)  
> BTW, Cass is one of my favorites, and I'm so glad I finally got to write her! She'll definitely be making a comeback in later chapters! (Hopefully I can get her POV in soon!)  
> You guys are awesome! :D


	20. Interlude

 

"Mmmmm. Nope."

"Uh-uh. Sorry, man."

"Tt."

Dick ignored the naysayers and spun midair, launching a barrage of batarangs at the oncoming thugs. A few of them went down with a chorus of grunts and cries of pain, but the rest just kept coming. He landed on one hand, rolling to keep with the momentum, and popped up just a few feet away from Batgirl. Turning sharply, he pressed his back to hers. Stephanie perked up, signaling that she understood.

Just as another goon—this one armed with needle-fingers and a crazed look in his eye—raced towards them, Dick bent in half. Batgirl let out a laugh and threw herself backwards, flinging her feet up into the face of the thug she'd been throwing punches with. She rolled, somersaulting over Dick's back, and landed on her feet just in time to hit Needles with a well-timed right hook.

"Ah-ha," she chuckled, shaking out her fist. One of her boots nudged the unconscious thug, and she shot Dick a wide grin. "I love me some cocky Scarecrow baddies. They're so…"

Dick grinned right back. "Tacky?"

Steph snapped her fingers. "Right? And don't even get me started on the burlap. Ooh, or the needle-hands." She cupped a hand over her mouth and stuck out her pinky and thumb next to her ear, mimicking a phone. She shouted to all of the thugs still up and kicking, "Ey! Scare-squad! I've got Freddy Kreuger on the phone! Says you're an inspiration!"

She ducked, giggling, as one of the 'scare-squad' shot a needle her way. It sailed over her head and shattered against the concrete wall.

Dick threw up a fist, catching another baddie in the face, and chuckled. "Back to the issue at hand, here…"

On the other side of the storage room, Tim groaned. His thug was trying hard to stab him with a needle or two, but he kept knocking the bristling finger-extensions away with a bo-staff and a bored frown. "Oh, c'mon, Bats.  _Not_ this again."

"I'm telling you, it'll be great! Just think—no worries, no thugs." He paused to frame the air with his hands, sidestepping a shouting goon. "Just games, shows, rides, and all the fried food you can stomach."

“Fried food, huh?” Batgirl hummed appreciatively and shook her batons, extending them slightly before she slammed them together into a staff. "Hn. Tempting. Will there be fried twinkies?"

Dick grinned. "All of the fried twinkies."

"Fried…burritos?"

"Burritos for days!"

"Fried pickles!"

"Yep!"

"Kit-Kats!"

"Affirmative!"

Steph's voice was an awed whisper as she slammed the end of her bo into a man's crotch (sending him down with a squeal). "Fried  _anything?"_

Batman stepped over and put both hands on his little sister's shoulders. "Batgirl," he said reverently. "We have fried  _soda."_

For a second, Steph just stared up at him in awe. Then, a wild smile shot up her face. She let out a whoop, swinging her staff into a thug's face with one hand. The other pumped in the air. "Count me the  _%* &# _in!"

Dick planted both fists on his hips, smirking over at Red Robin and Robin. The latter was still slow and shaky with his movements, but he'd really improved over the last two weeks. (They'd managed to call in Zatanna, who was more than happy to help fix him up.) But as far as the Family was concerned, if Damian could—and would—still punch a man in the teeth, he was doing just fine.

"Well," Dick said. "I've got my first convert to the cause. You two ready to sign up?"

Tim frowned. It was hard to tell beneath his cowl, but Dick was pretty sure one eyebrow was raised sarcastically. He ducked, sliding on the smooth floor, and came up hard to head-butt a man in the nose.

"Look," his little brother deadpanned, "Not that I wouldn't  _love_ to spend valuable time down at the Pier eating twinkies and watching contortionists when I should be— _hup—"_ He leapt over a barreling thug, just barely missing his sharp fingers, and whirled around with his staff. "—making more headway on the Owls Case…but we just don't have a lot of time."

Dick nodded thoughtfully, letting the heel of his boot scuff on the concrete floor. "Hmm, well, yeah. I see your point. On the  _other_ hand, though, you're overlooking something pretty dang important, Red."

Tim flipped his bo around, jabbing the tip into a thug's solar plexus. "Oh yeah? What's that, Bats?"

Batman steepled his fingers under his chin and pouted. "It would make me soooo happy."

A Scarecrow thug stopped to gape at Dick. Steph 'called him!' with a shout, and took the poor man down with a roundhouse kick to the skull.

"No offense," Tim huffed. "But all it takes to make you happy are cat videos and cereal."

Steph sailed by, knocking out three more thugs with a flying kick. "And Babs!" she chimed in.

Tim nodded. "And Babs."

Dick frowned at that, but shrugged his shoulders. "Robin," he called out. The kid took down another thug with a few well-placed jabs, and looked up at Batman through squinted eyes. "You've been pretty quiet. What do you think?"

Damian cracked his knuckles and stepped over his pile of fallen Scarecrow goons. "I agree with Red Robin. It may well be a colossal waste of time."

"Yeah." Tim nodded smugly. Then blanched. "Wait, you  _agree?_ "

"Rebreathers everybody!" Batgirl cried. She went for her belt with scrambling hands. "Crane must've released his gas, 'cause I'm starting to hallucinate!"

Damian's face was a mask of begrudging patience and longsuffering. If Dick had his phone on him, he might've snapped a picture to laugh at later. (When the kid wasn't within biting distance.) Robin let out a long exhale through his nose and continued.

"I agree with Red Robin," he repeated slowly, "But I also agree with Batman. We have been working nonstop for weeks. And, as Pen—er, Agent A says, 'all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy'." Under his breath he added, "Though this 'Jack's identity still eludes me…"

"Aaaand, he's back," Steph sighed, removing the rebreather from over her nose. She rolled her head and glanced over at Tim. " _You're_ just afraid of a little fun."

" _I'm_ just worried about the job!"

"Huh. Well, quit worrying and let loose a little, alright? This's why you're no fun—"

"Yeah, BG? Well, at least I take things seriously. Unlike some people."

"At least  _my_ bo-staff isn't shoved six feet up my—!"

"Hey!" Dick waved his hands, and three heads whipped around to stare at him. Red Robin and Batgirl shut their mouths, frowning. Robin was watching them with narrowed eyes. "Look, guys. All I wanna know is if you want to go with me to the Circus tonight. Okay? It'll be  _fun!_ We'll bond as a  _family,_ and it'll be  _awesome!_ Besides, Nightshade and Terry already said they'd go after patrol! _"_

His three siblings shared sidelong glances. Tim opened his mouth for some sort of retort, but cut off like he'd been punched in the stomach. A soft gasp jerked out of his throat. He staggered backwards.

His eyes widened, and he swung his staff at the air in front of him.

"H-Harkness," he muttered dully. "Batman, he's here. It's  _him…"_

Dick's hand shot down to his belt for his rebreather, and he barked over at Batgirl and Robin to follow his lead. Steph snapped hers to her cowl and took a deep drag through the filter. She blinked over at him, and her eyes widened at something he couldn't see.

"Batman," she said, pointing, "Get the antidote!  _Now!"_

He turned. Robin was crouched over, skirting backwards as he let out shaky, shallow breaths.

He'd been too slow.

"Mother," Damian murmured, too quickly. "I'm sorry. I will not do it again. I didn't mean to upset you. P-please don't—"

Dick stepped towards his little brother. But a low laugh gave him pause.

Years of working and fighting in Gotham City had taught Dick how to recognize each and every major player in this city, just by the sound of their laughter. Riddler's was high and nasal. Joker's was manic and crazed and evil. Penguin's was self-satisfied and airy.

Jonathan Crane's laugh wasn't like any of those.

It was the sound of a man who didn't take joy in anything but human misery. And didn't care who lived, who died, and who went stark raving mad in between. It was low, deep and guttural, but utterly emotionless. Shivers of discomfort prickled across the back of Dick's neck when he heard the hissing voice. It was barely above a whisper, and twice as terrifying.

"You should know better by now. This city belongs to the ones in the shadows."

"Batgirl!" Dick snapped.

Steph was behind him in the blink of an eye, back pressed to his. He could feel her shoulders shaking through their capes, hear her shallow gasps cycling through her filter. His little sister wasn't afraid of very many villains. But Scarecrow—one of the only people alive who could make her relive her worst fears and memories—might actually make the list. He reached back with a hand, and tapped her wrist. It was the only part of her that he could reach, but she nodded, accepting what little comfort he could give.

"It's a shame the Robins won't be able to watch me eviscerate you two imitations," Crane hummed gently, "But perhaps it will still bring a smile to my face."

Dick raised his fists. He could feel Stephanie do the same. They circled slowly, feet moving in tandem as they searched the shadows of the storage room for any sign of the Scarecrow. No black eyes stared back at them. No stitched mask peeked out through the shadows. But adrenaline was still buzzing through both bats as they watched, listening to the sounds of their brothers panicking around them.

"N-no," Tim whined, tone just on the brink of terror. "Get away from them!"

Damian threw up a hand, as if against some invisible blow. "Please, mother!"

Dick grit his teeth. "Let's kick his #$$, BG."

Steph bobbed her head. "Heck yeah."

They split apart, just as a whistling sound shrieked by Dick's ear.

"Whoa!" Batgirl cried, jerking to the side, and just narrowly avoiding a needle to the face.

Scarecrow's dead laughter rang through the museum's basement again. Both Bats whipped around just in time to spot him streaking out of the shadows, arms raised, needle-fingers bristling. His mouth was open in a cruel grin. His black eyes narrowed.

They whirled out of his way, twisting and dodging to avoid his sweeping extremities. Dick didn't miss the way that Steph fell perfectly into sync with his movements. They spun, kicked, and threw punches in an almost mirrored formation.

He knew it was because of Barbara. All of the other Robins had a little bit of Bruce in their techniques. Dick had his finesse. Jason had his brutal strength. Tim had the same cold calculation in his style, while Damian took after his father's disciplined execution. But Steph didn't move like Bruce at all, because Bruce hadn't trained her the way he'd trained the others. So instead, she fought like the person who'd taken her under her wing and trained her with different techniques: her older sister.

She had Barbara's ferocity and speed, even though she lacked her strength and stamina. Dick didn't miss the moves he'd taught her thrown in with the rest of her technique as well. It made him smile a little.

At least, until Scarecrow wrapped an arm around her throat, pulling her close. He grinned up at the Batman.

"I still remember the original. The redhead. Ssoo much quicker, so much  _better._ " He hissed, pressing his face close to Stephanie's neck. Batgirl shivered, and Dick took a step forward, snarling. "This one is so…" He inhaled deeply through his nose. "Cowardly," he finished, savoring the word.

Unexpected anger unfurled in Dick's chest, and he felt it pour through him like liquid flame. He wanted to rush forward. Rip out Scarecrow's throat for laying a hand on his little sister. He wanted to tear—

Dick paused, breath hitching.  _'What the #$%%?' h_ e thought. Blood was pounding in his ears, and he fought to bring down his thumping heartrate. He caught Steph's eye. Asking her silently if she was alright. And from the firm set to her lips and the sharp glint in her eye, he knew that his Batgirl had everything under control. He just needed to calm down…

"I wonder," Scarecrow wheezed, "What would happen if I dosed this one? Would she self-destruct? Would she go  _insane?"_

' _Steph,'_ Dick thought,  _'I hope to #$%% you know what you're doing.'_

Before he had the chance to react, Scarecrow plunged one of his needles into Batgirl's neck. It slid easily in between the chinks of the armor plating, and Steph's pupils dilated. She let out a strangled puff of a gasp and her knees wobbled slightly. Scarecrow chuckled, hoisting her up so that she didn't collapse onto the concrete floor.

"Crane!" Dick snarled, surging forward. He held a batarang up, nearly ready to plunge it into Crane's jugular.

But Batgirl's head snapped back. The plating of her cowl cracked against Scarecrow's nose, and the villain let out a pained shriek. He'd loosened his grip on her, and Steph took full advantage. Her elbow swung into his cheek. She spun, using the momentum to plant her other fist into his face. He cried out, and staggered back. Dick could already see a red bloodstain blooming in between the threads of burlap over Scarecrow's nose.

His beetle eyes were wide as he wheezed, "H-How are you—?"

Steph shook out her fist, teeth bared. "You must be losing your edge, Scared-Crow. Your little nightmare cocktail isn't making me see anything worse than what I already do every time I close my eyes."

She surged forward, and laid Jonathan Crane out flat with just a few well-placed hits.

Scarecrow had no sooner bit the dust when Dick's jaw dropped. He gaped at his little sister, who smiled weakly back at him.

Then, she winced. A few gloved fingers fluttered up to her temples.

"Ow," she whimpered. "Stuff stings like a  _& *$^%."_

Dick tried to speak, but his tongue wasn't working.

Steph shrugged, and stepped lightly over Scarecrow's prone form. With a dainty wave of her hand, and a wide smirk, she waved her hands at the boys, who were still stumbling around, shaking and whimpering.

"C'mon, boss," she said brightly. Her left eye twitched a little as her gaze darted nervously to something Dick couldn't see. "Let's go get these two wimps some anti-toxin, yeah?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

She rolled over with a soft exhale, pulling the covers up underneath her chin.

As Barbara squinted at the bright light streaming through the half-shut blinds, she noticed that the other side of the bed was uncharacteristically empty. There was an indent in the pillow and sheets where her partner had clearly slept last night. But other than that, and the faint smell of his shampoo lingering on the pillowcase, there was no other sign that Dick had been in the room at all.

Barbara frowned. Rolled onto her back to stare at the ceiling.

Getting out of bed felt like a chore that she was neither willing nor able to tackle. Her limbs didn't respond, sinking instead into the softness of the mattress that had felt like concrete only a few hours ago. Her shoulder and waist ached from the stitches she'd received at the hospital. And the band of bruising around her throat still throbbed a little when she swallowed.

Zatanna had offered to help. Started to wave her hands and chant out the backwards spell that would take away the cuts and bruises and pain. But Barbara had cut her off. Insisted that her body heal naturally.

She couldn't get the image of Zee's hurt expression out of her head. Couldn't unhear the worry in her friend's tone as she pulled her aside and asked her why she hadn't picked up her calls. Why Dick was completely pristine after being held by a psychopathic killer for several days—and Barbara looked like she'd been dragged underneath a semitruck for the same amount of time. She didn't answer. And she didn't accept the magician's help.

The truth was, she wanted the pain. She  _needed_ it.

Every wound was a reminder of the pain and death she'd inflicted on another human being. It was a punishment. Every time she looked in the mirror, every time she moved, swallowed, breathed—she was reminded of Shiva's dull eyes staring back at her. If Bruce had been there, if he'd seen what she'd done, he'd have done it for her. Taken away her cowl and banished her to Blackgate. Or, more likely, to Arkham, to be with the other deranged killers.

But it wasn't like she'd be the first Kean to see the inside of an asylum cell.

Barbara moaned, and pressed the heels of her hands over her eyes. Swirls of color erupted on the backs of her lids, and she grated her tongue against the papery-dry roof of her mouth. Still trying to come to terms with the idea of being awake…and not liking it any better.

She rolled onto her side, and glanced over the alarm clock.  **4:19** _._ As in  _p.m._

Any other day, she'd have leapt out of bed, and demanded to know why no one had gotten her up. But today was not that day, and Barbara's face sunk deeper into the pillow instead.

Then, she spotted something next to the clock.

Frowning, she pulled herself partly upright and squinted down at the pair of objects on the bedside table. One of them was a rose. Stem clipped and petals still folded neatly together. They were beautiful, and soft in Barbara's fingers as she hesitantly plucked it up. Buttery yellow at their center, but tipped with deep orange. She placed it under her nose, and inhaled the earthy scent.

Then her eyes latched onto the other item on the table: a folded sheet of fancy stationary. The kind that Alfred owned and liked to use, but everyone borrowed from for 'official notes'. (Which, in Jason and Steph's cases, included caricatures of their siblings in red and black ink that they left randomly all over the manor.) With one hand, she scooped it up, and unfolded it with a soft crinkle.

_Good morning, Sleeping Beauty!_

_Something came up this morning with Gotham's own resident spook (Scarecrow) so I took the younger three out for a little exercise. All of us thought it'd be good to let you sleep in a little longer. Left Little Wing with you just in case (and because he's pissed at Timmy for drinking all the coffee, so we want to skip the bloodshed today) and Agent A's gonna have a hot meal ready for you whenever you go downstairs. So there's no rush!_

_On a side note, the Circus rolled into town a few days ago, and their opening ceremonies are tonight. If you'd like to accompany me, I would be ever so grateful. (And I'm sure we can convince/bribe/coerce the kids to join us) So if you want, you can look forward to a fun night filled with shows, carnival food, and yours truly! ;)_

_I'm sorry if I've been a little distant the past few days. I never really got around to thanking you for saving my life. Which is kind of a $#*^^% thing to do. But I promise I'll make it up to you, my sweet dominoed daredoll, light of my life, love of my world. (Yeah, yeah. Sappy. But we both know it's true!)_

_See you tonight! :D_

_I love you._

_Dick_

Barbara buried her nose back into the velvety petals, eyes still tracing the words of the note. Something like a smile curled at the corners of her lips.

What was it about that boy? Every time he smiled or laughed or did something like this for her, Barbara was launched back into the same feeling she'd had as a love-struck teenager making out with the Boy Wonder on top of a skyscraper. Fluttery and warm.

She laid the rose and the note aside, and slowly eased her way out of bed. Feet first, swinging out onto the soft carpet before the rest of her body followed fluidly.

Barbara didn't feel like changing out of her pajamas, so she padded softly down the hall and the stairs in her flannel pj bottoms and GCPD t-shirt. The manor was as quiet as a graveyard, but as she approached the kitchen, she could hear the distant clattering of dishes, and the soft murmur of the TV.

Alfred was busy whisking something in a bowl, and looked up when she stepped into the room. The old butler smiled softly, and nodded to one of the barstools at the kitchen island.

"I'm glad to see you up and about, Miss Barbara. How was your rest?"

Sitting on the couch in the adjacent living room, Jason tipped his head back, meeting her eyes. He waved his hand in a two-fingered salute. His voice was hesitant, but he managed a quiet "Hey, Barb."

She pulled out the stool and sat slowly, careful to fold her feet over the bottom rung. Barbara smiled, and made short small talk with Alfred, but then, her eyes drifted towards the television that Jason was fixated on.

The evening news. The anchor was droning on in the usual monotone as he listed out the events and people and places that demanded special notice for the evening.

"… _Scarecrow attack in Gotham's metropolitan museum has left one person dead and three more suffering injuries from overexposure to hallucinogenic gas…funeral services for 68-year-old security guard Hugh Giles will be…authorities claim casualties would have been monumentally more severe if not for the intervention of Gotham's own Batman and Company…in a statement from Sergeant Harvey Bullock, we've learned that the man known as Jonathan Crane has been placed into custody pending…"_

"Crazy stuff," Jason muttered. He twisted on the couch to watch Barbara carefully. For a few moments, he stared silently, as if thinking hard about what he wanted to say. Then, he cleared his throat. "Hey. I'm sorry if I've been a jerk the last few days."

Barbara said nothing. Alfred slid a plate of roasted vegetables and pork chops in her direction. She accepted gratefully, and started shoveling the food mechanically into her mouth. Jason frowned.

" _Mayoral Candidate Lincoln March is breaking poll records this quarter as the elections draw nearer and nearer. Let's go to Hank with a special interview with Mr. March now. Hank."_

" _Thanks, Phil. I'm here with Mr. March in front of Gotham City Hall. Mr. March, what has been your overall impression of the Mayoral race?"_

" _It's been a wonderful opportunity to get to serve the people of this city, and to interact with so many other candidates who hope to do the same."_

" _If elected, Mr. March, how do you think you could best help the people of Gotham?"_

" _If elected, Mr. Reynolds, I would do all that I can to reach out to the impoverished of this city. I am a firm believer that this city's crime rate is a direct result of poor infrastructure and a lack of support for the citizens who so desperately need it. It is our responsibility as Gothamites to take care of each other and work together to clean up this city.'_

" _Well said, Mr. March. Now back to you, Phil."_

"That March guy," Jason said, trying to initiate conversation again. "We ran into him a few weeks ago. Pretty sure he's part of the Court."

Barbara shoveled a forkful of roasted carrots into her mouth. The spices Alfred had used peppered her tongue and she washed it down with a swig of water. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Total rich-snob. Didn't like the way he kept looking at us. We'll have to keep an eye on him."

She wasn't sure that was cause for concern. Half the  _city_ looked at the Waynes differently (oftentimes with confusion or concern depending on which Wayne sibling was currently dangerously sleep-deprived—or on fire), and she was pretty sure it had nothing to do with the Court of Owls. Barbara's eyes wandered over to the TV screen, and she got a better look at this Lincoln March. When she caught sight of the graying hair and square jaw, her fork clattered against her plate.

She'd seen him before. The gala. The man in gray. He'd been glued to the edges of the room, watching her and Dick like a hawk.

Or, maybe an owl, after all.

She noticed that Alfred and Jason were staring at her, openly concerned.

"Miss Barbara? Are you quite alright?"

"Yes. Sorry." Barbara shook her head, reminding herself to add Mr. March to her long list of people to investigate.

Jason just narrowed his eyes and sighed. Slowly, he got up off the couch, sighing a little as he stretched. Then, all business, he turned, stalked through the kitchen, and snatched up a set of car keys off the hook by the back door. It was one of dozens. One of the many ways Bruce had reinforced his 'billionaire playboy' front was with cars. So many cars, ranging from the 'ridiculously expensive' to the 'borderline functional'.

"C'mon, Barb. Let's go driving."

Barbara looked to Alfred for permission; she'd only eaten about half her plate. If there was one thing the man hated, it was food waste. But to her surprise, the old butler smiled kindly and nodded.

"I feel that it would be best if you get out of the house for a little while, Miss Barbara. You've been spending far too much time down in that musty cave. A little fresh air will do you a world of good."

Barbara almost scowled. That time spent down in the 'musty cave' was dedicated to getting the cave's systems and the BatComputer back online. It had taken her days to repair the framework and get even the most basic functions up and running. And it would likely take weeks to get the rest. If they ever did.

The rest of her time was devoted to research on every laptop she could find tucked away in the manor. (The number was surprisingly high.) She'd been doing background checks, activating social media and government database-hacking algorithms of her own design, running diagnostics on those algorithms, and overall,  _stalking_ her prey until she found what she needed. For the past two weeks, she'd taken a break as Batwoman, giving off the excuse that her wounds needed time to heal. In that time, she'd resumed her role as the Oracle. Which, essentially, meant running things for her Birds of Prey in Cormorant City, but also compiling data and dirt on every person she was investigating.

James Gordon Junior. Barbara Kean (who, while deceased, was still a person of interest), Jeannie Kerne, Jason's estranged grandfather, Sebastian Clark and family, Abraham Vanaver and family, Vicki Vale, Calvin Rose (who counted, even if her research into him was done with both his knowledge and his help), and now, of course, the man in gray, Lincoln March…

She threw on a pair of Dick's boots, left carelessly by the backdoor, and followed Jason into the garage. He chose one of the more 'discreet' cars. A dark red, '99 Ford Mustang with white rims and a modified spoiler. Barbara slid into the passenger seat, still lost in thought.

Was she being paranoid with all of her research? Of course she was. But if Bruce had taught her anything, it was that fortune always favored the prepared. And that the more meticulously prepared you were, the more likely you would come out of any given situation the victor. And so, she gathered and collected and stored any and all information she had on these people, tucking them away into both computer files, and the ones in her own mind.

And she didn't like the idea of anyone—let alone a possible member of the Court of Owls—watching her or her family. She'd definitely need to keep an eye on March…

Jason turned the key, and the engine roared to life. He hummed along with it, tapping the dashboard appreciatively. "Ah," he sighed, "You're a goodie. Not as good as the Impala or the Camaro, maybe. But I love all my babies just the same, don't I?"

Barbara rolled her eyes. "You and your muscle cars."

Jason only grinned. He and their mentor had bonded over fixing and restoring the cars that came and went through the Wayne Manor garage. Dick had tried to join in several times, but he just didn't understand machines as well if they didn't have screens or motherboards. So it became a 'Bruce and Jason' pastime. And she knew that it had made the stocky teenaged kid they'd brought home from the streets feel just a little more welcome and at home.

As they sped down the road, trees flying past as they started to leave the manor and its grounds behind, Jason cleared his throat.

"I've been a real d**k lately. And I'm sorry." He shrugged, then wrenched the wheel to the side.

Barbara grabbed hold of the 'Holy $#^* Bar' and held on for dear life. When they came out of the curve, she let out a sigh. "No, Jaybird. I'm sorry. I should have told you guys before I rushed off to the Middle East. I should have told you…about Dick."

His brow dropped and he leaned forward, squinting at the road. The distant fuzzy dot on the edge was just a stray cat, and they zoomed past it, pausing only slightly to glance at its wide green eyes.

"I can understand why you didn't," he said softly. "And I can understand why you felt like you had to bring him back. I'm…glad we didn't lose him, too. That we didn't lose both of you."

Barbara nodded, and glanced out the passenger window. They were surging through the suburbs and the industrial district, where the buildings were comically low and flat compared with the towering structures in the inner part of Gotham. It was simpler, but almost…more peaceful. She'd busted her fair share of baddies this far out, but for the most part, the Rogues and their lackeys kept within the safety of the concrete jungle. That's how it was. And while Stephanie always talked about living out there with disdain or indifference, Barbara had always wondered what it would be like to have a picket fences and breathing room.

For a while, they drove in silence. The only sounds Barbara heard were the purring of the engine, the sound of sirens off somewhere in the distance (but in Gotham it was practically background noise anyway), and the steady sound of her own breathing.

But after a few minutes, she scrunched her fists in her lap and glared down at the stripes on her pj's. When she spoke, her voice was dry as dust.

"Ra's made me kill someone."

The words burst out of her throat. Quick and toneless.

Jason didn't react at first. Just nodded his head slightly, and turned off onto another road.

Then, "Did they deserve it?"

"Jason!"

He met her eyes. "Well?"

She looked away. The lines on the road flew under the car, and the engine's humming turned to a roar as Jason accelerated. Her arms folded across her chest.

"No…Yes?… _No._ No one deserves to die," she mumbled.

Jason snorted. His fingers tightened on the wheel as the car flew over the road, steering back towards the back roads that would bring them closer to the manor. She knew they weren't headed back yet. Jason just wanted room to punch it without getting a ticket.

"Please," he said, voice dripping with irony. "Save the speech. We've been fed that same crap since we first put on the dominoes. Tell me how you really feel. Like the other day at the precinct."

She told him. What happened, how it happened, how she felt. Barbara moved her hands as she spoke, describing the shock and anguish of taking a life so personally. But there was…an undertone. And she was sure that her little brother didn't miss it.

He bit his tongue, mouth part of the way open, and nodded thoughtfully. "What you're feeling is what we would call 'vindicated'."

"What?"

"That feeling like, 'I killed somebody. It was justified. Had no choice'. Whatever." He shrugged one shoulder. "You forget, you're talking to the only other guy who's broken Daddy-Bats' Golden Rule. I know how you're feeling right now, and it sucks, but it also gets better."

Her stomach churned. "I don't think I  _want_ it to get better."

"Well, then, that's masochistic. You're gonna drive yourself into the ground if you don't come to terms with it."

"Come to  _terms?"_ she demanded. "Jay, I should be in  _jail!_ I should be in Ark—" Her voice cut off, dying in her throat. She could barely say the word. It brought up too many pictures in her mind. Hospital beds, restraints, prison bars, leering psychos…

"No." He shook his head. His eyes darted sideways, shooting her a glance. He must have seen the way her fingers were gripping the seat cushion, or maybe her tensed shoulders or scared eyes. Because he let out a sigh, and turned the car onto another side road. "You did what you had to do to get yourself out of there. To get  _Dick_ out of there. And in this case, I'm sure Ra's is just gonna toss whoever you shanked into the pit anyways, so it's not like there's lasting consequences."

"Lasting consequences," she repeated dryly. The words tasted wrong on her tongue, and she felt a twist in her gut.

Jason was wrong. There were consequences for  _everything._

"Yeah. You said he had you bag one of his assassins?" Jason shot her a side glance again, raising one eyebrow. "Who was the lucky S.O.B.?"

Barbara pressed her back against the seat, letting the belt slide tight over her chest. She huffed, and shut her eyes.

"Shiva."

The car swerved violently. Barbara's eyes shot open just in time for her to catch a glimpse of the telephone pole Jason had narrowly missed. The sound of rubber on asphalt screeched in her ears as her hand shot up to the 'Holy $#^% Bar'.

Instead of wrecking, Jason pulled the vehicle over to the side of the road. He was breathing heavily, chest rising and falling as his knuckles turned white around the steering wheel. His head tipped towards her, and she caught the flash of disbelief in his eyes.

" _Shiva!?"_ he cried. "You? Killed %^$=#*&!^$?*^&  _Shiva!?"_

Barbara heaved a sigh.

"As in the  _Destroyer._ The woman Bruce always said to 'never even look at unless you wanna get disemboweled and disowned'? The %^?*!%^$&*^& Lady Shiva, Destroyer of Nations? Toughest lady on the entire planet who could kill you probably just by looking at you?  _That_ Shiva?"

"Jason—"

"Holy  _$#*%._ Holy… _$#^%."_

"Jay—"

The back of his head banged against the headrest and he let out a squeaky exhale through his nose. "Remind me never to get on your bad side. I mean, I already knew that, but now…"

Barbara groaned into her hands.

"&*%#," Jason sighed. "Is that what happened to your shoulder, then?"

She touched the spot. Still bandaged and stitched. Still aching. "Yeah."

"Does Dick know any of this?"

Barbara whirled around. "#$%% no!" she hissed.

"Why?" he demanded. "He could help you, probably way better than I can! He needs to know  _everything,_ or else—"

"He's not going to find out," Barbara said through her teeth. "And you aren't going to tell him a &*%# thing."

Right. Because of course they should tell Dick that Barbara had only convinced Ra's to bring him back to life by crossing their mentor's  _one uncrossable line._ That would go over just about as well as dropping an atom bomb. The others couldn't find out either. And what would Alfred say if he knew…?

Jason's eyes widened slightly. Then narrowed. "You know, Babs," he said, leaning a little on the wheel. "I'm not the only one who's been a bit of a d**k lately."

"Is that right?" she shot back with a heated glower.

"Yeah. Take Supes and his kid for just one example." Jason turned in his seat, fully facing her now. The engine was still humming; he hadn't taken the key out of ignition yet. "You know the kid's been in to see Dami five, maybe six times now? His other friends haven't been, because they don't know anything about this whole $#^! show. So Superman Junior is the only kid his age who's been to see him."

Barbara frowned. She wasn't proud of the way she'd handled the situation back in the hospital room. But still. "We told Clark to stay out of Gotham."

"Yeah. Got that," Jason shot back. "But we talked to him. He and the other meta-jerks have pulled out with the whole 'government support' crap, and after you and Dick ripped them all a new one, they've decided to start trying to make things right again." He sighed, leaning one shoulder against the seat, but never broke eye contact. "Whatever we think about them, whatever they  _did…_ they loved 'im too, Barb. They just want to fix things now."

She looked away.

"So I don't care what kind of chip you're carrying around on your shoulder. Let Dami get visits from the only friend who knows about his 'other life', okay?" He huffed. "And while you're at it, maybe stop snapping at Tim. Kid's had enough crap to deal with."

Barbara was incredulous. "I haven't been snapping at Tim."

"Uh, yeah. You have. The rest of us, too. And we've all noticed, but nobody wants to say anything cause they're afraid of setting you off."

Her jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"

"You've been like a &*!#^%*$ time-bomb ever since you and Dick got back. And the others'll put up with it until Titus grows a pair of horns to match Dami's, but I am  _done._ Got it?" He leaned forward, eyes alight and teeth bared.

Barbara wanted to lean forward, match his expression, tear him down a few notches. She felt something flare in her chest. Hot and searing anger that rushed up into her head until all that she could see was Jason and his fierce snarl, and how dare he talk to her this way, how could he suggest that she was—?

Barbara watched his heated expression melt off his face, giving way to open shock. She watched his pupils shrink as his eyes widened, and his voice came out hoarse as he said,

"Barb."

Her teeth were grinding together. "What."

He wet his lips. "…Did they put you in the pit?"

She reared back. "No!"

"Are you sure?" he pressed, holding up a placating hand. "Do you have any blank spots in your memory? Gaps of time that you feel like you missed?"

"No."

"Headaches? Vertigo? Wacked out heart-rate?"

"Jason," she warned. "Answer's no."

He shook his head, ignoring her, but still staring her down. "Then explain the short fuse to me."

"Oh, I don't know, Jay," she said, hearing her voice take on a mocking edge from far away, almost like she was a spectator in this conversation. And she didn't like where it was going. "Maybe I'm just ticked. Because I have been stabbed, cut, bruised, beaten and choked, watched my boyfriend die right in front of me—and then I  _killed somebody!"_ Barbara was shaking now, but she put a hand on the dash to steady herself. Her breathing was shallow as she forced herself onward. "And I'm  _sorry_ I'm not as desensitized as you, Jason! But do you have any idea?  _Any clue what the sight of blood does to me?_ Maybe I'm  _crawling out of my own skin_ —" Her voice broke like a thin thread. "Because the anniversary's next month and no one in this  _family_ will give me a &*##^%$  _break!"_

His lips pursed, eyes widening just a little more. She could tell that her tone had stung him, but she'd be &*%#$& if an apology was about to leave her lips. Instead, she dug her fingernails into her arm and scowled, looking away. One hand crept over her lips, pressing into her mouth hard.

She shouldn't have said so much. She shouldn't have said anything.

Jason turned back to the steering wheel, and stared out the windshield.

"You want a break?" he said, voice soft and detached.  _Too_ soft and detached. His hand rose a little until he was pointing out the passenger side window. "Go take one. I sure as #$%% won't stop you."

She turned her head slightly to follow his finger. Through the glass, she could see the dark bricks of Wayne Manor through the dense trees. They must have circled back around without her noticing. Which wasn't like her at all…maybe a walk in the fresh air would be enough to clear her head and set her to rights.

Her fingers curled around the door's handle. "Fine," she snipped, voice as paper thin as her brother's.

She threw open the door, and felt the autumn air blast against her skin. Goosebumps prickled on her arms, and she felt the chill slap her in the face, burning her cheeks. Barbara was vaguely reminded of the fact that she was only wearing a thin t-shirt and pajama bottoms, but she stepped out of the car anyways. To #$%% with this stupid car ride.

Jason cleared his throat, and shrugged off his leather jacket. She turned just in time to catch it as he tossed it up to her.

"It's freezing," he grunted by way of explanation. "Don't get sick, or Alfred'll kill me."

She turned to go.

Then her little brother's voice floated over to her, soft, but sharp.

"Sorry. I get the whole anniversary thing and everything," he said, and she could hear the sound of him gripping the wheel tight, fingers sliding on the cracked leather. "But I think I speak for everybody when I say that you're our  _sister."_

She pulled on the jacket. The lining was softer than she would have expected. And thinner. She could still feel the bite of the autumn breeze.

"And we'd appreciate it if you started  _acting_ like it."

Jason gunned the engine. The mustang took off down the road towards the manor, leaving Barbara alone and shivering.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jason probably meant for her to walk back to the manor on foot. Giving her enough time to clear her head or pull herself together. But as she weaved in between the trees, dry leaves whispering and crackling under her boots, she found that her feet carried her almost automatically to the stretch of land behind the manor.

It was hidden in between more trees. Right at the edge of the pond, just below the slope of a hill that led up to the manor's back door. Even from a distance, she could see the splashes of white and gray. Pale shapes jutting up from the ground like jagged teeth. Stark and bleak in the middle of a world of red, yellow, and orange.

She was sure that Jason probably intended to meet her back up at the house. But instead, she stepped through the cast iron gates of the Wayne Family Cemetery. Where centuries of Bruce's ancestors and family members had been laid to rest. A cynic might have assumed that the family plot was just a means of separating the Waynes from 'the rest of the common rabble'. It was certainly something one of the other upper-class families of Gotham might have pulled. (Probably  _had_ pulled, come to think of it.)

But Barbara and the others knew better. It was a way of staying close to home. Of staying  _together._

She passed Jason's stone. Gray and square, etched with his full name, his birthdate, and the day the Joker had blown him to bits. Beneath that, some quote that Alfred had probably picked:  _"Goodbyes are not forever, are not the end; It simply means I'll miss you until we meet again"._ Sweet. Poetic. And a little _too_ on-the-nose.

Barbara strode past Stephanie's headstone. Hers was marbled white and gray, etched with black. Seeing her little sister's empty grave brought back a surge of memories that she wasn't sure she wanted to explore at the moment. But the same heavy feeling she'd been engulfed by on that sunny day, as they'd silently lowered the casket into the ground, returned full force. She had to keep walking to shake it off her shoulders.

Those two liked to joke about having headstones in the family plot. ' _Least we won't have to worry about it later, right?'_ Or, if they were in a particularly blunt mood, ' _Hey, Alf, do you think I could get a new inscription on mine? Somethin' like 'Hey, it's hot down here!''_ Then they'd laugh, but it wouldn't quite reach their eyes. As if they were remembering bad memories about this place, too.

Other names paraded past her.  _Gerard T. Wayne. Alice Elizabeth Wayne. Emmaline St. Cloud, wife of Fredric Wayne…_ and even  _William Oscar Wayne,_ whose face was immortalized as a bust in the manor on top of the hill.

The graveyard was unnervingly silent. But as Barbara continued, she finally arrived at her intended destination. The twin marble obelisks bearing the names  _Martha Kane_ and  _Thomas Wayne._ And there, right beside them, the smaller black headstone etched in silvery white:

_Bruce Wayne_

_Friend, Father, Colleague_

" _JUSTICE FOR ALL"_

Barbara stared down at it, frowning. Slowly, she stuffed her hands into the leather jacket's large pockets. Her fingers brushed against a few candy wrappers and bullet casings, but she didn't mind. She ran her tongue over her dry lips, cracked by the cold. Then, she opened her mouth.

"Hey, Boss-man," she said hoarsely. The sound of her voice startled her a little, breaking the silence of the woods and graves around her.

Bruce, unsurprisingly, didn't answer. So she kept going.

"I know I haven't been out here as much as I should have. Dami's been down here a lot to talk to you. Dick, too. And Alfred." She cleared her throat. "I think the others are just too…sad. To come visit, I mean. Jason doesn't like this place. Neither does Steph. And Timmy…he's not even convinced that you're down there, to be honest."

She let out a huff of dry, humorless laughter. It formed a misty cloud in front of her face.

Barbara swallowed hard. "I've been doing what you asked. I've tried to keep them all together, B-man, but it's so much harder than I thought it would be." Another dry laugh. "How the #$%% did you put up with all of us? How did you manage to keep everybody alive—erm, most of the time—and happy? I had no idea.  _No idea_."

Her feet shuffled, stirring the brown leaves under her toes. Something stuck in her throat, and she could feel the beginnings of tears prickling behind her eyes. Barbara bit her lip and looked away.

"I'm not you, Bruce," she whispered. "I've had to make calls that…calls I wouldn't have had to make if you were here. Dick  _died._ And I killed someone to bring him back, because it was my fault, and because I can't lose him too." Barbara held up her hands, tearing them from the pockets to look at her red fingertips and pale skin. She briefly wished she had gloves, but decided automatically to ignore the cold. "I've hurt people. These two men…they drove me over the edge. I finally saw into that abyss you were always talking about. And…I don't think it scared me as much as it should've."

One drop ran down her cheek. "I'm slipping, Bruce. And I can't tell the others, and I can't tell Dick, because they can't stop me." She swallowed hard. "Not like you."

Her knees hit the ground, crunching leaves underneath her weight. She reached out, ran a thumb over the word  _Justice._

"It's a month away," she whispered breathlessly. "I know I've handled it before. But this year's different. I don't know if I'll be able to…" Barbara gulped, and clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. "The nightmares are getting worse," she continued, voice muffled. "And it's going to overlap a mission. And this mission, Bruce…I don't completely know what I'm getting into. It was Cal's idea. Me, him and Dina came up with it at Stella's, and…I don't know if it'll…it's either going to get us what we need and put this whole mess with the Court to rest, or…or it's going to snap me in half." Another sob. "And I'm worried that if I…if I…"

Her voice stopped working. Probably for the best. Barbara was rambling uncontrollably now, every thought and fear in her head pouring out of her mouth in an erratic, continuous string of words. She could feel herself losing control, images and sounds burbling up in her mind like toxic sludge. Blood roared in her ears and she gasped, feeling an all-too-familiar pounding in her chest. Barbara focused on her breathing to stop the oncoming panic attack.

Breathe in.  _One… Two… Three… Four... Five... Six…_

Hold. Six seconds. Her spine curled. Her head was thumping in time with the irregular beats of her heart.

Breathe out.  _One… Two… Three... Four... Five... Six..._

Barbara slowed it down. Eight seconds. Then ten. She visualized sinking down into a pool of cold water. Standing on a beach, with sand between her toes and seawater lapping over the tops of her feet. She thought of Dick, smiling, holding her hand and brushing his lips over her knuckles. Slowly, Barbara began to feel her heartrate slow so that it was no longer pounding in her chest and ears. Her eyes cracked open, and she ran the back of her hand over her eyes.

"Sorry, B-man," she muttered. Then, carefully, she swept her feet out to the side, finding a more comfortable sitting position on the hard ground. One corner of her mouth lifted slightly. "Heh. If you were here, you'd kick my #$$ for being so emotional. Tell me to 'man up'. 'Focus on the mission, because the mission's all that matters' and all that crap." Her chin dipped in a small nod. "Then again, if you saw me now, you'd probably toss me in a cell and throw away the &*%# key—"

Then, she heard it.

It was a soft sound, barely there. An untrained ear might have missed it. And if Barbara hadn't spent the last several years of her life looking over her shoulder, she wouldn't have heard the soft, slight shuffle of autumn leaves, too loud to be displaced by the wind, and too sudden to have naturally settled.

She whirled around, sending up a flurry of dried leaves, and was on her feet in a split second.

But even a split second was too long.

Something hard—probably a boot—connected with the side of her face. Barbara let out a cry as her skull cracked against her mentor's headstone. Her vision exploded with white, and she collapsed sideways onto the ground.

"Nnn," she moaned. Her head pulsated with pain, and her fingers threaded up through her hair as she struggled to pull herself up.

Someone did the work for her. She felt a fist grip into her hair, yanking up sharply. Barbara gasped as pain flared over her scalp. And as her vision began to clear, she heard the voice, low and smooth. A shiver tingled up the back of her neck.

"Weak. It's hard to believe  _you're_ the one my masters are so bent on acquiring."

The bleariness in her eyes was swept away just long enough for Barbara to catch sight of the mask, and the amber goggles. Then, the Talon slammed her head back into Bruce's stone, and stars burst in her eyes once again.

"Ah!" she gasped, clawing at the sharp claws gripping her by the hair.

"Honestly? I don't know what they see in you," the Talon mused.

His voice was familiar. Barbara's brain was throbbing, so it took her longer to place it. But her mind flew back to the night on the roof of Arkham Asylum. The confrontation with Cal and his Talon partner, the one who'd been eager to slit her throat and leave.

It seemed that partner had come back to finish the job.

His voice grated against her ears. "And I  _really_ don't know what  _he_ sees in you."

Who? Her thoughts flitted to the headstone. …Bruce?

"But then again, he did always have a thing for red-heads."

Ah. Dick.

Wait.

How—?

He beat her head against the stone one more time, shattering her thought process and probably her skull. The pain rattled her teeth and made her eyes sting. Barbara decided that she'd had enough.

She reached up, seized the Talon's wrist in her fingers. Lightning fast, she snapped it to the side with a sickening  _crack_.

Barbara expected a scream. A recoil.  _Something._ But all she got, as she wobbled to her feet and squared her shoulders in a ready position, was a very confused looking assailant. One who stared down at his wrist—bent at a sickeningly unnatural angle—as if he'd never seen it before in his life. He looked up at her, then wrapped his good fingers around his wrist. Barbara's eyes widened as the sound of popping bone snapped against her ears, and the wrist was set back into its rightful place. Like he was demonstrating, the Talon rolled the newly-healed wrist, clenching and unclenching his fist.

"Cute," he decided.

Barbara took a step back, and bared her teeth. "What are you?"

In response, the Talon cocked his head, just like an actual bird of prey. "I am no one," he said, suddenly monotone. "I am everyone."

Her fingers curled around the top of the headstone. The cold stung her bare fingers. "That's not an answer."

"Then, I'm not sure what to tell you."

He surged forward, but this time, she was ready. Using Bruce's headstone as an anchor, she put all her weight on the hand gripping its cold surface and swung her feet up into the air. A streamlined arc that struck right into the Talon's head. They both went down rolling. She managed to reach up under his mask to rake her nails across his face, drawing blood. His claws narrowly missed her right eye. After a few more well-placed hits, Barbara came out on top, straddling her opponent, knees on either side of his chest. She cocked her fist, ready to sink it into whatever was behind that faceless mask.

"Feisty," he muttered smugly. "Hn. Maybe I  _do_ see."

"Shut up." She got two strokes in, felt his jaw pop under her fist.

On the third, his clawed fingers wrapped around her wrist.

Barbara saw what he was about to do just from the twitch of his shoulder. It was a sudden realization, like someone had flipped a switch. She braced, trying to ground herself, but wasn't prepared for the inhuman strength that twisted her wrist, flipping her to the side and on her back.

Fortunately, her wrist didn't snap like the Talon's had. But it was her bad shoulder that was wrenched back. And she felt most—if not all—of her stitches shiver and rip. Pain flared through her shoulder suddenly, and she let out a pained cry.

Now the Talon was on top. His gaze went to the spot of crimson starting to soak through her pajama shirt and hummed with satisfaction. "Already bleeding for me? And to think, we haven't even finished foreplay."

Barbara bared her teeth, breathing heavily through her nose. "What the #$%% do you want?"

"Isn't it obvious?" The Talon leaned close, and Barbara could finally see his eyes behind his lenses. They were narrowed to slits, but she caught the curve of his iris, and the expanding black pupil. Just under one eye, she could see one of the bleeding scratches she'd left on his face. "Surely one of the world's greatest detectives should have been able to figure it all out by now."

His hands wrapped around her wrists, and slammed them into the ground on either side of her head. The movement made the agony in her shoulder scream at Barbara, but she managed to croak out, "I dunno, bird-boy. I'm getting an awful lot of mixed signals here."

Talon's head dipped slightly. He seemed to be scrutinizing her, and for a few achingly long seconds, they watched each other in silence. Sizing the other up. And if the man on top of her was anything like Barbara, he was probably taking note of hesitations or movements that would indicate a weakness. But to her growing dismay, she couldn't see any.

_Think,_ she chided herself. Barbara was in her pajamas, so her batarangs, taser, and other hardware were back in the cave. Tucked safely away in her belt, where it was all utterly useless to her. And she was wearing Jason's  _non-_ Red Hood jacket, so the most she was bound to find were a few empty Snickers wrappers. Talon was strong and solid; flipping  _him_ was off the table. She ran her mind through different options, different approaches…and found that she was coming up empty.

That was when fear started replace her anger. Leaking through her veins like acid, burbling in the pit of her stomach.

Talon's face was next to her ear. "If it were up to me," he whispered, the soft sound grating against her ear, "You would be dead right now. I'd leave you torn to pieces, bleeding all over the topsoil. Maybe it'd be  _days_ before the other little bats would come running and find big sister scattered all over the graveyard. Rotting and festering." He inhaled, savoring the idea. "I can't tell you how much I'd love that. I wonder if your blood's as blue as Wayne's?" He brought one of his hands up, still clenched around her wrist. Talon forced her to draw one of her own fingernails across her cheek, and she shivered involuntarily. That seemed to satisfy him, and he thrust her hand back to the dry grass. "I'm almost tempted, now. Sentences be d****d, right?"

"D**n  _you,"_ she breathed through her teeth.

"Already done." He chuckled a little at that. "But. Much as I'd love to see the look on the 'Gray Son's' face when he finds his sweetheart's mangled corpse…well. Believe me, I trust my Court to make both of you suffer. And who am I to fight that?"

Barbara didn't miss the bitterness in his tone when he said 'Gray Son'. What—?

The hand holding her left wrist was suddenly wrapped around her throat. "So many bruises," he muttered. "Dare I say from the Gray Son himself? How kinky."

The frigid tips of his brass claws dug into her skin, and a squeal leaked past her lips before she could stop it.

"I hold your pitiful life in my hands," he mused. Then, straightened. "But this is just a reminder of what's to come, Batwoman. Keep your adorable nose out of the shadows, and leave well enough alone. The Court may not have sentenced you just yet…" He leaned in once more. "But it's only a matter of sweet, sweet time."

The hand released her throat and she heaved a gasp.

As the weight on her chest disappeared, she heard the Talon's low voice whisper,

"Speak not a whispered word of this. Or they'll send  _me_  for your head."

Barbara bolted upright, sweeping the scene for her assailant. But without a sound, the Talon seemed to have disappeared.

It left an icy feeling of unease prickling over her skin. She was a Bat; she knew quiet. But the stealth it took to seamlessly disappear like that…?

Her shoulder was beginning to drip, and she winced violently at the stabbing pain flaring there.

"Ow."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"And then she got out of the car, and I drove back here."

Alfred poured him another mug of hot cocoa. "Indeed?"

Jason's phone buzzed, and he glanced down at the screen. A message from Dick.

"Just a sec, Alf."

"Hmm."

**RAY O SUNSHINE –** can't get ahold of Babs. everything okay?

A few seconds, then:

**RAY O SUNSHINE –** can you guys just meet us there? 6 o click sharp.

Jason smirked, and reached for his phone.

**JASON –** Click.

**RAY O SUNSHINE –** ha. you're hilarious.

**JASON –**  Click click click click click.

**RAY O SUNSHINE –** ok STOP! i get it. yeesh. :(

**JASON –** XD XD XD

**RAY O SUNSHINE –** so?

**JASON –** Click

**RAY O SUNSHINE -** …

**JASON –** Jk. We'll be there.

He turned off his phone, flipping it facedown on the countertop. Alfred was watching him with a frown, and Jason felt a stab of guilt. The butler had a pretty firm stance on texting during a conversation, but it was too late to go back now.

"I mean, I gave her a coat and everything." Jason shrugged and blew the steam off the top, watching it swirl through the air in smoky tendrils. He licked his lips, took a sip, then heaved a satisfied sigh as the beverage warmed his insides. Cocoa was great. But it still wasn't coffee. Of course, if Timbo hadn't drank  _all_ the coffee this morning…that little… "Figured she just needed a little time to cool down."

The old butler raised an eyebrow. "Quite literally, it would seem."

"Like I said, Alf," Jason countered, with absolutely zero fight in his tone. "I gave her a coat. It's like, a five-minute jog to the house from where I left her. She'll be fine."

"And yet, my boy, it has been  _ten_ since you stumbled in. Still, I quite hope you're right." Alfred pulled out a stool next to Jason and sat, watching him carefully.

Jason shifted in his seat. "Um…yeah?"

A concerned line appeared between Alfred's graying eyebrows. He leaned forward slightly, staring intently. But he didn't say anything. He never  _had_ to.

If Jason remembered correctly, the record for the longest hold-out against Alfred Pennyworth was three and a half minutes, held by Timothy Jackson Drake himself. Really, it was only because the poor kid was so zoned out and caffeine-deprived that he stared at the wall behind Alfred for that entire time without blinking once. It wasn't until Alfred cleared his throat—taking things to a nuclear level—that Tim finally snapped out of it and caved to the butler's intense stare.

Jason sighed, overcome by the sensation of Alfred's eyes boring holes in the side of his head. He threw up his hands. "I'm worried about her, alright?" The inch or so of liquid left in his mug splashed a little. "But I'm also pissed as #$%%. She keeps biting our heads off for no reason and I'm getting pretty &*#% sick of it! She acts like she's on this 'solo crusade' all the sudden, like  _we're_ not trying our hardest to find the Owls, and she…she isn't  _herself,_ Alf! I swear I saw her eyes glow green in the car when she yelled at me. Now I'm not saying she was chucked in the Pit, but she was  _definitely_ chucked in the Pit! And—"

Alfred's cool hand on his arm made the words die on his tongue. He fell silent as the old butler shook his head.

"Master Jason," he said, slowly, as if wanting to drive a point home. "I have known Miss Barbara for much of her life. And, yes, while I agree that she is being rather short with all of us—"

"Us?" Jason gaped. He felt his soul leave his body (again) at the thought of  _Barbara_ yelling at…at  _Alfred._ That thought was too scary to dwell on, though, so it was lucky that Alf cleared his throat meaningfully, winning back Jason's attention.

"—I must emphasize that she is under a lot of strain. Last I checked, she was working several cases at once, many of which none of the rest of you are aware. Not even myself." The butler chuckled a little, but his smile died, morphing into something more solemn. "And, of course, we are growing closer to that dreaded time of the year. When Miss Barbara was attacked in the library by the Joker."

Jason decided that 'attacked' was putting it as lightly as a piece of tissue paper, but he let the man continue.

"I myself don't have much experience with healing minds," Alfred said with a shrug. "But I am familiar with soldiers and combatants who have seen unspeakable things in battle. So, Master Jason, I would encourage you to be aware of Miss Barbara's PTSD, and—"

Wait.

"Babs has PTSD?" Jason's mug clinked against the countertop.

"Yes. Of course. Did Master Dick not—?" Alfred paused, eyes widening ever so slightly. "Ah. I see. Forgive me, Master Jason, but I don't believe you were supposed to hear that."

PTSD. Post traumatic Stress Disorder. If Babs had it, then that suddenly explained a lot of her behavior, especially with the approaching anniversary of her shooting.

He felt like a grade-A jerk most days, but this took the cake.

"I…" He frowned. "I didn't…"

Alfred patted his arm. "It's quite alright. Master Bruce was afflicted with similar symptoms on a regular basis, as well. So might I offer you a piece of advice?"

Jason stared at the countertop, managing to nod once. He was still reeling. Putting together all of Barbara's incidents and explosions in his head, seeing them in a brand new, scary light. That time she snapped at him for cleaning his gun too close to her on patrol? He'd almost forgotten the flash of terror on her face. The way she always jumped when she passed the library, or seemed to zone out randomly? And that fainting spell at the hospital. Had that been a panic attack?

"Have patience," Alfred said kindly. "Miss Barbara needs our love and support now more than ever."

Jason scoffed a little at that, the pang of guilt still sharp in the pit of his gut. "She has a pretty $#*^^% way of showing it."

"I cannot lie to you, Master Jason. At times, it will not be easy. She will not make it easy." The butler's face fell. "But sometimes, it is the times when the people we love push us away, that they need us the most."

Jason nodded, hunching his shoulders. "Right. Sorry, Alf."

The old butler smiled softly. "There's no need. Besides. I'm sure that Miss Barbara is going to be just fine."

They both jumped at the sound of a fist on the kitchen door. Loud and insistent, jarring the easy quiet that had been present in the room just seconds before. Jason slid off the bar stool and gripped the handle in one fist.

The back door swung open, letting in the chilly breeze, and Jason stopped short.

Barbara was panting, sagging a little against the doorframe as she looked up at him through slitted eyes. Her hand was pressed against her shoulder, cupping it gingerly. Jason could see slashes of crimson seeping between her fingers.

"H-hey, Alf," she grunted, looking down at the floor sheepishly. "I…um, kind of tore my stitches."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!  
> A few of you might have been wondering how I’ve been able to update so fast, and I wish I could say it’s because I’m just that good! XD But in all honesty, I’ve just been editing and posting everything that I’ve already got written, and this was the last of those chapters.  
> Right now, I’m part-way done with the next chapter, but it might take a few days to get it completely ready.  
> I’ll try to continue to update as fast as I can, but as a Tired College Student(TM), I can’t promise that it’ll be as fast as I’d like it to be, and I know it definitely won’t be a chapter a day.  
> But thanks for reading this, guys, and thanks for your patience! Your kudos, comments, and even hits are greatly appreciated, and I’m so glad to have readers like you! :D


	21. A Night Off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I know it's been a while, but Midterms have been killing me, and I've only just barely managed to get all my other projects done to work on this chapter. I can't thank you enough for your patience and all of your amazing feedback, and I hope this is enough to make up for the radio silence. Enjoy! :D

 

“I’m tellin’ ya. _Puppy dog_. Like, when it’s just been adopted?”

Jason considered the idea, and nodded to Steph absently. “Mm-hm, mm-hm. I see your ‘puppy dog’, though, and raise you one ‘little nerd boy who’s just been adopted… _and_ found out he gets to live in a cave full-time.’”

Tim stopped chatting with Terry up in front of them. His head whipped back to fix them with a fiery glare. “Well since we’re calling each other out, how ‘bout a ‘hyperactive man-child elbow deep in his fifth round of chili fries’?”

“Yeah, Timbo?” Jason’s eyes narrowed. He sidestepped a passing civilian who was too preoccupied with his phone to watch where he was going. After casting an annoyed glance his way, Jason turned back to Tim. “I will never apologize for the amount of fries I can keep down _. Never_.”

Steph shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, smirking wide. “Yeah. ‘Sides, I think ‘hyperactive man-child’s a little too close to the mark, don’tcha think?”

While his siblings giggled, Dick tipped his head back to look up at the towering skyscrapers. It wasn’t often that he got to see his city from this angle. A bird’s-eye-view was his preferred method of watching over Gotham. Still, seeing everything up close and personal, from the bright shop windows and bodegas and food carts, to the bustling sea of people making their way wherever as fast as possible.

It was chaotic. It was dirty. It was loud.

But it was _Gotham._ So, Dick loved it.

“You guys realize I can hear you, right?” he demanded, pivoting around on his heel to face the rest of his family. He was walking backwards, now, but he doubted he would bump into anyone. For some reason, people seemed to skirt around their small group. (Which he didn’t mind; it’d only be a matter of time before someone recognized them anyway.)

Terry smirked. “He’s _still_ smiling. Hey, D-man? How about that time Helena scooped up all those baby ducks on patrol? The look on her face?”

“Ah, yes.” The older version of Damian smiled fondly, hands deep into the pockets of his trench-coat (Courtesy of Bruce’s closet.) “I think you’re right, McGinnis. Grayson _does_ look like that.”

Dick threw out his hands, grin never wavering, and exclaimed, “Alright, guys, you got me! I’m happy! I’m _ecstatic!”_ He laughed hard, making his siblings’ eyes widen slightly. A few of the passing civilians stared at him with open shock, before shoving past the group of incognito Bats. “Can you blame me, though? I get to show you where I grew up!”

Damian (the smaller one) nodded solemnly. Someone (probably Jason or Tim) had filled him in on Dick’s tragic backstory on the drive over. After the incident with the Scarecrow, they’d made their way back to Wayne manor to make a quick change into more ‘appropriate’ clothing for public settings. They may be going to a circus, but Dick had been pretty sure that showing up in Batsuits wasn’t going to fly. There, they’d met up with Terry and Older-Damian, who’d both raided Jason and Bruce’s closets respectively. The former, because he shared Jason’s affinity for leather jackets and tight black shirts, and the latter because Bruce’s clothes were the only ones in the house that even came close to fitting the man’s wide frame.

Jason and Barbara had been back at the manor, too. Everyone had stumbled into the kitchen to see Barbara perched on the counter while Alfred stitched up her shoulder. Jason was sprawled on one of the couches, and begged to go with them, because he was ‘bored of hanging around doing nothing all day’. (Which had all been part of Dick’s master plan. He’d known boredom would defeat the Red Hood faster than any bribery or threat would.) After a promise from his girlfriend to meet them later on, Dick and the rest of the family had jumped into two separate cars and made their way as close to the fairgrounds as they could. But, Gotham being Gotham, the closest parking was a mile and a half away.

So, they braved the streets.

Steph giggled. “I cannot _wait_ to see Grayson in his natural habitat!”

Tim snorted.

“Speaking of, Stephanie,” Terry cut in, rocking forward slightly. “Isn’t your shirt a little…?”

Everyone’s eyes went to Steph’s top under her denim jacket. It was a clinging white tshirt with purple and blue lettering that said, in curvy cursive letters: _**This is My Alter-Ego**_. She’d seen it on a shopping run with the Birds of Prey a few months ago, and the rest of them had almost had an aneurism when she first wore it to school. Admittedly, it was—

“On the nose? Yup.” Their sister smirked. She stretched her arms out lazily to the side and swung her hips. “Buuuut, I’ve seen at least three other girls wearing this exact same shirt just in the last ten minutes, boys. I think I’m good. And, Terr-bear? You can call me _Steph.”_

Terry’s eyes widened, and he shot Older-Damian a side-glance. “Uh…that’ll take some getting used to.”

The younger Damian hopped up onto a fire hydrant, balanced perfectly, then leapt off. He continued walking as though the obstacle hadn’t been there at all. “Why is that, McGinnis?”

“It is so weird to have baby-you say that,” Terry muttered to his partner. Then, to the rest of them, he said, “Well, I mean, I guess I’m just not used to calling the Mayor of Gotham _‘Steph’.”_

All at once, everyone froze in their tracks. Five heads swiveled towards Terry McGinnis, mouths open in shock. Tim had gone very, very pale. His eyes fluttered shut, as he muttered, “Oh, _#$%% no.”_

Steph’s expression slowly widened into a grin, eyes lighting up. “…What?”

“What,” Dick echoed.

“Heh. Nice one, babe.” Jason knocked her on the shoulder.

“Tt. I have no idea what the voters were thinking,” Damian chimed in with a scowl. “Gotham will surely go to the dogs.”

Older-Damian started a little, then actually grinned. “Funny,” he said pleasantly, with a fond look at his younger self, “I remember saying the exact same thing. Nearly word for word, as a matter of fact.”

Steph whooped and threw her hands up in the air. With a little jump, she shouted, “#$%% yeah! I’ma rule over _all_ you suckers one day!”

“Oh, &*#, _why,”_ Tim whispered. His eyes were still screwed shut, and Dick had to reach out with one hand to steady them as they continued walking down the sidewalk. He’d almost walked into a lamp post.

“Think my first law will be…” Steph tapped her chin, then her eyes lit up. “Everybody wears purple on Thursday!”

“It’s Wednesday, actually,” Terry supplied breezily.

Her jaw dropped. “ _Really?”_

“No.”

Steph clicked her tongue in annoyance, then tapped her foot quickly against the pavement as they paused at a crosswalk. When the little white man popped up on the monitor across the street, they moved with the rest of the crowd. Someone brushed Dick’s shoulder on their way past. In annoyance, they paused, turned around, and raised an eyebrow. As if they knew his face, but just couldn’t remember where they’d seen it. Reflexively, Dick reached up and pulled his jacket’s hood down lower. 

Steph elbowed Terry eagerly. “So if I’m the honorable Mayor Brown of Gotham City—”

“Who said anything about ‘honorable’?” Tim mumbled.

She ignored that. “—then what about everybody else? I want full spoilers!”

Terry’s lips twitched. He shot Older-Damian another look. “I’m…not so sure I’m allowed to tell you anything like that.”

“C’mon,” Jason prompted. “It’s not like we’re actually gonna remember any of it once we ship you guys back to the future, anyway! I believe somebody mentioned something about me only having _one eye?_ How did I lose it? Was it something awesome, like a back-alley knife fight? Or was it totally lame?”

“Eaten by a crow,” Steph guessed.

“Tripped? And fell on a spoon,” Damian added with a dry smirk. 

Tim shook his head. “Took up needle-point…and _failed.”_

Dick let out a laugh, turning to raise an eyebrow at his younger brother. “Picked his nose and missed?”

Jason scowled as his shoulders slumped. “I hate all of you.”

Terry shrugged, shooting them his own smug grin as they turned a corner. “Yeah. Sorry, man. I have no idea. Nobody ever told me…”

“I know how he lost it,” Older-Damian chimed in, ignoring Terry’s pointed look. When everybody’s attention swiveled towards him, though, he only said, “He was an idiot.”

Jason scowled.

“But I _can_ tell you that you become the chief of the GCFD and have two kids,” Terry finished. “And Drake gets to be the new CEO of Wayne-Powers Enterprises—”

“Wait, _Powers?_ Who the %*&# is—”

“—Stephanie’s the Mayor, Grayson becomes the D.A., and Barbara gets to be Commissioner.” He paused, considering, then added, “You’re all, like, _super_ successful. Go figure.”

“And what about you?” Dick nodded to Older-Damian, who considered him with one raised eyebrow. “What’s your story, Lil’ D?”

Older-Damian tipped his chin up, marching forward with purpose. Dick supposed that the years would pass, and Damian would grow up. But he’d never lose the confident air that seemed to follow anyone who came from the house of Al Ghul. Every move the guy made was with grace and purpose, but if Dick squinted, he could still see pieces of _his_ Damian. Like the way he rolled his eyes, or the evil little smirk he got on his face when Tim stepped into someone’s spilled slushie and let out an outraged groan. With a nonchalant shrug of his shoulder, Older-Damian shot Dick a sidelong glance.

“Eventually, everyone retires,” he said easily. “I alone keep up the fight. In time, I go to work with the members of the Justice League—”

Terry let out a bark of laughter and jerked forward to plant an elbow in his side. “You mean, you go to work with _Jo—”_

“—which takes me away from Gotham. All seems well, however, until there is a plot to murder the CEO of Wayne-Powers—”

“Cooool, Timbo. Somebody tries to murder you,” Jason cut in with a smirk.

Tim scowled.

“Not…exactly.” Older-Damian rolled his eyes to the sky with a soft huff. Clearly not amused with the frequent interruptions. But he shoved his gloved hands deeper into the pockets of the trench coat and continued down the sidewalk at his easy pace. “But a man named Warren McGinnis becomes wise to the plot, along with a series of plans to develop biological weapons of mass destruction.” At this, the man’s face twisted with well-controlled anger. “An off-the-books endeavor that, if _I_ had been made aware of, never would have—”

“Hey, D,” Terry said, waving his hand. “Stick to the story. We all know you would’ve solved the case in five seconds flat, but you were off with your super-friend, so that was up to _moi._ Keep it rollin’.”

Older-Damian feigned annoyance with a heavy sigh, but Dick didn’t miss the fond look the man shot towards the teenager. “Yes. Indeed. But, sadly, Warren McGinnis was removed from the picture.”

Terry’s face fell.

Dick frowned towards the younger boy, and felt a pang of sympathy. He knew all too well what it was like to lose parents to evil men who decided that their lives were just obstacles in the way of an endgame. So he fell back slightly, moving to step in time with McGinnis. Older-Damian followed suit, until he and Dick flanked the future Batman on either side.

“This doesn’t sit right with Terry. So he investigates. Discovers files on his father’s computer that detail the plot, and takes it to the only man he figured could help. The CEO.”

Terry huffed. “Cranky old skiv. Barely gave me the time of day.”

“Yes.” Damian and Terry shared a knowing smirk. “But regardless, McGinnis persists. This leads to finding out the… _secret_ endeavors of the Gotham City Waynes. After a long period of argument and dismissal, McGinnis steals the suit.”

Steph perked up. “Hold on. The _suit? The_ suit?”

“Yes, Brown. Please pay attention.”

Tim laughed, but Stephanie cut him off with a sharp jab to the ribs.

“Through sheer stubbornness, and an inability to understand the English word ‘ _no_ ’—”

“Or ‘get off my property’,” Terry chimed in, “Ooh, or maybe ‘I will self-destruct this suit if you don’t take it off _now’_ Or—”

“ _Anyway._ McGinnis elbowed his way into the mantle of Batman.” Older-Dami smirked. “And for a few months, he was able to operate without any…interference.”

“But then you all found out.” Terry nodded with a smug grin, as if he were remembering something. “Came running to complain about ‘some kid running around with a billion-dollar suit, what the #$%% are you _thinking’_ and then once you added _Damian_ to the mix…hoo boy.”

“Needless to say, we all get used to the idea. Eventually.” Older-Damian side-stepped a man hobbling past with a flask tucked close to his chest. “But McGinnis’s little shows of defiance spark similar reactions in your children. And now—or, that is to say, in the _future—_ Gotham is once again defended by a new generation of Bats.”

Dick nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the rest of his siblings nodding to each other, throwing around skeptical glances.

“Cool, cool,” he said, “That was a very vague explanation that didn’t answer my question at all. But okay, I guess.”

Terry nudged his shoulder. “Yeah. Trust me, man. He doesn’t like to share life details. Pretty sure he’s allergic to words like ‘backstory’ or ‘boyfriend’ or ‘what happened in Tai Pei’ or—”

“Wait.” Dick paused. The others stopped, gathered around as he stared at the McGinnis kid in shock. “What was that last one?”

“Tai Pei? Yeah. I don’t know man. But he came back with this _schway_ scar on his—”

“No, I think he meant the other one.” Tim cocked his head. “What—”

Older-Damian was shooting Terry a look so filled with heat and venom that Dick swore he could feel the chilly temperature of the air around them heat up by a few degrees. “It doesn’t matter,” he barked. “My life is my business. But in the meantime—"

He didn’t get the chance to finish. Someone stepped out of the alley they’d paused beside, slow and easy. The man was dressed in dirty jeans and a ragged sweatshirt, and had a five o’clock shadow decorating his chin. The kind of shifty character that could typically be found in its natural habitat—lighting up behind a convenience store or loitering in a dark corner of a subway station. They regarded him warily. Then, lightning fast, he snagged Stephanie’s throat with one arm, and had a gun pressed against her temple before the rest of them had the chance to blink.

With a sneer, he said, “Let’s make this easy, yeah? I know exactly who you are, _Waynes._ So, you have ten seconds to pony up some cash or I blow the girl’s brains out.”

He seemed to be proud of his little speech. He also seemed to find his threats to be sufficiently frightening, because a smug smirk curled up his face.

But the other six Wayne kids shared an almost bored glance that made that smile start to melt like ice cream on a hot summer day. In the mugger’s firm grip, Stephanie let out a weary sigh, rolling her eyes up to look at the orange and pink sky.

“Oh,” she sighed, “Puh- _lease_ tell me you didn’t just grab me ‘cause I’m the girl.”

Tim nodded, bouncing easily on the heels of his shoes. “That _is_ incredibly sexist, man. The kid over there would have made much more sense.”

Damian shrugged, not denying that statement.

Jason cracked his knuckles, smiling in a way that usually sent most shifty characters skittering back to their shadows. It sent a shiver up the back of Dick’s neck, and he had the passing urge to step between his little brother and the mugger—for the other man’s protection. But Jason cleared his throat and said one word.  

“Dibs.”

“ _Dibs?”_ Tim’s jaw dropped in outrage. Nuh-uh. You got the last one!”

Dick shook his head, feeling something like a smile pull at one corner of his mouth. “I call dibs.”

Steph scoffed. The look on her face screamed annoyance. If she didn’t have a dirty sweatshirt sleeve jammed under her chin or a gun pressed to her head, she might as well have been arguing with her brother’s over a messy Monopoly board. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“Seniority. I am the OG.” Dick waved his hands with a smirk, glancing from one outraged sibling to the next. “I outrank _all_ of you.”

“Oh, please. I am the largest. I call ‘dibs’.” Older-Damian huffed through his nose, and crossed his large arms over his even larger chest. The mugger’s eyes tracked the movement, and Dick noticed his pupils dilate slightly when he caught sight of the sheer size of the time-traveler’s bicep muscles. “Because I can put all of you down, and _then_ this man here. All without breaking a sweat.”

“You are forgetting,” smaller Damian chimed in with a sniff, “That I am the only biological Wayne here. Excluding _him.”_ He nodded to Older-Damian. Terry perked up slightly, like he wanted to say something, but smaller-Damian plowed on. “And he is not even supposed to be here. As such, it is my duty to put down this bumbling fool. Look at him, he doesn’t even know the proper way to hold a firearm.”

The man’s ears turned red. “Hey!”

“I think you’re all forgetting something.” Steph smiled sweetly. “ _I’m_ the one in the headlock, here, people. Don’t I get a say?”

“You’re the damsel, babe.” Jason shot his girlfriend a grin. “Let us have this.”

The mugger’s jaw was dropping further and further open with every exchange. His eyes tracked each of the Wayne kids, like he was watching some confusing and slightly terrifying football game, and he wasn’t quite sure who was in possession.

Steph let out an indignant growl at being called a ‘damsel’, but she paused to watch her brothers argue with a sly smirk.

“No! Jay, you got the _last_ one! Why—”

“He was my _granddad? Duh?”_

“You are all being petty and immature. Allow me to—”

“—calm down and just punch him in the jugular. I’m tellin’ ya. One jab and—”

“—how can you expect me to stand by while Brown is in such peril?”

Steph whistled, catching everyone’s attention. Six sets of blue and green eyes swiveled to meet hers, and she could feel the mugger tense up a little behind her. Waving her fingers, she tilted her head coyly.

“Mmm. Yeah. Like I said. Pretty sure you’re all forgetting one vital little detail, boys.”

The man holding her in a headlock stiffened as all of his muscles locked up. He shook, convulsing, and making a series of grunting and gargling sounds that made Steph’s stomach lurch a little. But when he fell to the ground, twitching, she stepped over his prone form and waved her small handheld stun gun like a victory flag.

“Ha!” She crowed, while all of her brothers gaped down at the subdued civilian. “Bold of you to assume I _don’t_ have a taser with me at all times!”

Tim’s eye twitched a little. “…why?”

She shot him a look. “I’m a girl in Gotham, genius child. Think about that one for a few seconds, why don’tcha?”

Dick beamed at her. “Great job, Steph.” He leaned down to shake the man’s shoulder. He was out cold. “Let’s get going. We’re almost there. Oh, and Jay, would you mind calling 911?”

It only took a few minutes for the cops to show up, since Jennings and Alverson were patrolling the next block over. Once the cops loaded the mugger into the back of their patrol car, they waved the Wayne kids off, and the group continued their trek through the city.

The buildings thinned, then stopped, and they could all see the shimmering ocean on the horizon. The breeze hit them next, carrying the smell off the sea and rifling through their hair and clothes like a street kid searching for loose change. The sun had almost slipped below the thin line between sky and water, turning the world orange and gold. Each of the siblings stared at Dick as his eyes travelled to the cluster of multicolored lights near the shoreline.

Dick glanced back at his siblings with a wide, happy grin.

“We’re here, everybody.” Their older brother’s eyes were alight with the fire from the sunset. “Welcome to Amusement Mile.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“How long is this going to take? I just want a rough estimate, Jim.”

Jim Gordon considered Barbara’s words carefully. His eyes were tracing over her worried face as he frowned down, pausing to reach up and scratch at his mustache. As he considered the question, Barbara’s attention drifted back down towards the plastic bag clutched in the Commissioner’s knobbed fingers. Inside, there was a pair of small glass sample slides with a few white specks clamped in between.

During her fight with the Talon in the Wayne family plot, Barbara had managed to get her hand up underneath his mask and rake her fingernails down the man’s face. Once she was safely inside the manor, and once she had been worried over by her family members and stitched up by Alfred, she’d stolen down to the Cave for some of Bruce’s equipment. Sliding the Talon’s skin cells out from underneath her fingernails to the glass slide had been easy. Studying them underneath one of the Batcave’s many microscopes had been even more so. (She noticed several anomalies in the formation of the cells. They _were_ human, but…different somehow...)

But the hang-up presented itself when it came time to actually identify the subject they’d been harvested from. With the Batcomputer, the process would have taken five minutes. Maybe fifteen, if the Talon wasn’t in any police or government records.

It should have been easy. But the Batcomputer was a smoldering wreck that Batman and Batwoman had yet to piece back together. And Barbara’s laptop ensemble was definitely not equipped to handle DNA samples.

So really, that left her only one option.

“I don’t think I understand,” the Commissioner finally said. His words were slow and careful. “Why are you coming to us for this sort of thing? I thought you and—” He paused as one of his detectives strode past, rifling through a stack of papers in her hands. Once she was out of earshot, Gordon heaved a sigh and leaned back against the vending machine. They were standing towards the back of the GCPD’s main building, away from the bullpen and the locker rooms. Barbara had requested that they forgo meeting in Gordon’s office, since the frosted-glass door was one of the most visible places in the station. And since she’d come dressed down in civvies, she didn’t want to invite the publicity that might come from being seen as Barbara Pennyworth, Gold Digger Extraordinaire, visiting the Commissioner so soon after her boyfriend had been found safe.

Reporters and nosy police officers were just two more bullet points on the list of things she was definitely _done with._

“Believe me,” she said softly. “If I had any other options, I would have utilized them. But the usual systems are down, and I need this favor.”

His eyebrow quirked up. “Ah, yes. Your… _technical difficulties._ But don’t you have another place to go? In Cormorant?”

Barbara grit her teeth. Gordon wasn’t _supposed_ to know about her ‘other team’. Then again, he wasn’t supposed to know a lot of things. And yet, here they stood.

But she couldn’t go to the Birds, even if their computer system and setup was one of the best in the world.

“There are certain…factors at play,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “And certain people who can’t know what I’m looking into. Do you understand?”

He hesitated, but then, Jim Gordon nodded.

“So. How long?”

The old Commissioner considered the question, blinking behind thick glasses, then said, “A few weeks. Maybe a month. We have other cases that—”

“This is a priority, Jim.” Barbara’s voice took on a pleading edge, and she stepped forward slightly. “I need the results as soon as possible. Isn’t there anything you can do to streamline the process?”

She watched his shoulders shrug up and down, his gaze shift to one side of her, and then the other. When he finally met her piercing gaze, he said, “I suppose…I could streamline things. Put a few other cases on hold.”

A sigh of relief burst through her lips. “ _Thank_ you, Jim. I can’t—“

“—But it would still take me a few days to get the results. These things take time.”

“I understand.” She smiled, then paused. “I…need to ask that the people you put on this are trustworthy.”

He nodded. Curtly. Like he’d expected as much. “Of course.”

“And…” She hesitated, letting her eyes drift to his left arm, which hung a little differently than his right. “Do you have the other items I requested?”

She didn’t need to ask. She could see it in the way he held his arm. Too close to his side, like he was pinning something between his bicep and chest. He started, but muttered an affirmative and drew the objects out of his coat.

Two olive-green files. Thin, but not without substance. The kinds of files that the GCPD had used years ago, before switching over to a different filing method. Barbara’s eyes lit up with interest when she saw them. Typically, old cases could be found in the GCPD’s database. But in certain instances—such as cold cases or dead-ends—that was wasn’t the case. To look them over, she needed the hard copies.

“I don’t pretend to know why you’re interested in a decades-old cold case,” Gordon droned, peeking at her over the rims of his glasses. “Especially when it’s… _this_ decades-old cold case. And the other one…” His face pinched into something resembling grief before he recovered. “But I’ve worked with you Bats long enough to know that questions don’t exactly get me too far.”

She accepted the files quickly. As soon as the thick paper met her fingertips, she felt an odd feeling rush through her. Cold and electric. A thrill of realization. In her hands, she held two origin stories. At the _very_ least.

And once she cracked them open, devoured their contents and checked them against her own databases…

She’d get her answers. Sure as #$%%.

Gordon cleared his throat, and Barbara looked up. “Thank you, Jim. This means a lot.”

He nodded again. His eyes softened, and his demeanor shifted from the grizzled Gotham City Police Commissioner to something more grandfatherly. A kind and vaguely sad smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he said, “Anything for Bruce’s little girl. He’d be proud of you, you know.”

Barbara’s smile froze slightly. But she nodded, and mumbled out another ‘thank you’.

Gordon peeled himself off the vending machine, and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Should probably get a move on. Bullock and Mendoza are taking me out to lunch, and I can’t be late if I want to keep this old head on its shoulders. Besides, I’m sure you have somewhere to disappear off to?”

Barbara’s mind flickered back to the concerned frown on Dick’s face when his eyes had landed on her bleeding shoulder. She smiled thinly. “Something like that.”

“Good, good. Well, I’ll call you in a few days when we have the results back.” He paused to rifle in his pocket, before drawing out three quarters. He slipped them into the slot in the vending machine, one by one, and Barbara heard the soft series of beeps as his fingers pressed against the number pad. With a small mechanical whir, a cellophane package plunked down into the bottom of the machine. Gordon stooped to retrieve it. “In the meantime, let me know if—”

Barbara’s pocket buzzed urgently, and she stiffened. She drew her phone out, and one glance at the screen sent her into high alert.

INCOMING CALL FROM: **CAL**

Gordon had paused, and straightened. Now, he was looking at her with a mix of concern and confusion.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I have to get this.”

“I understand.” His head bobbed, and he turned to head back towards the bullpen. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“I will,” she said softly. Then, forcing herself to smile widely, she pressed the button and placed the phone next to her ear. Her tone was bright and breezy. “Paulo’s Psychic Pizza Parlor. That’ll be $15.97. We’ll have it there in thirty minutes or less.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then a sharp burst of laughter.

“Ah. Some things never change, do they?”

“Nope.” She popped the ‘p’ and took off down the hallway towards the exit. She tucked the files into her shoulder bag and stepped out into the crisp evening air, drinking in the sunset as it reflected off of the skyscraper forest around her. “Interesting thing to note, though, Cal, is that I had your number. But you didn’t have mine…?”

“Dina gave it to me,” Cal replied easily. “I hope this is okay?”

“Of course.” She scanned the curb for her cycle, and hurried over. “Just a surprise is all. Is there something you need?”

He paused for a few seconds, giving Barbara just enough time to pull up the seat on her bike and stash the shoulder bag. “I…heard you found Grayson. Is he alright?”

She put the seat back down and swung one leg up over the side. Once she’d saddled the cycle, she blew a few stray strands of hair out of her face, and said, “Well. As ‘alright’ as you’d expect, I guess. He and Damian are both a little shaken up.”

“Naturally.” A beat, then, “I’m sorry. How are you?”

“Me? Peachy.” Barbara slid on her helmet, and tapped a button on her phone. Instantly, the call synced to the speakers built into her helmet, and she stashed the phone back in her pocket with a sigh. “Or at least I was, until the Court sicced a Talon on me.”

_“What?”_

She frowned at his tone. Cal had maintained an easy, light air until now. His voice had taken a darker turn, drifting into anger or confusion. Or maybe a mix between the two. Barbara didn’t have the chance to think too hard on it, because Cal picked up quickly.

“I…the Court didn’t send anyone. Which Talon was it? Do you know?”

Her frowned deepened at the insistent edge. She pulled away from the curb and started to weave her way through traffic. Illegal? Maybe. But no cop was going to pull her over, and her cycle had been built specially for fitting between stationary vehicles for quick street chases. It was in ‘incognito mode’ at the moment, which meant that no one would question Barbara Pennyworth on the back of a million-dollar piece of Bat-tech. Right now, it just looked like a candy-apple green Vespa.

“No idea,” She said flippantly, pausing to glare up at a red light. “He kept droning on about the ‘Gray Son of Gotham’, though. Had an odd penchant for head-banging. And I don’t mean the fun kind. Know anyone like that?”

Calvin’s tone was very dark. “I have my suspicions.”

Once the light turned green, and she sped forward again, Barbara wet her lips and said, carefully, “You didn’t call just to check in on me. That’s what our meetings are for. Is there anything you need?”

“Can’t a brother just check in on his little sister?”

“Is there anything you _need?”_ she repeated with a smug smile.

“Heh. I was just worried about you. Between the Triple B Killer and the Batcave’s systems—”

“How did you know about that?” she cut in, simultaneously cutting off a blue sedan. The car honked loudly, and the driver leaned out his window to shout a few less-than-savory threats. Barbara craned her shoulder to flip him off, then sped away.

“Dina brought it up. Said she was confused as to why you weren’t using the Clocktower systems instead.” Barbara could almost picture him shrugging over the phone. “And that you’re welcome anytime. I think she misses having you around.”

“Yeah, well, I miss her, too,” Barbara replied quietly. Her eyes scanned the upcoming intersection, and she spun into a tight left turn. “But there’s just a few things I need to do that are more…off the books. That’s all.”

“Might I ask what that’s about?”

“Sorry, Cal. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

She meant it as a joke, but Calvin didn’t respond for a minute or two. As the seconds dragged on, Barbara wondered if maybe he’d hung up the phone, or if the call had disconnected. (With her helmet’s spotty Blacktooth feature, it happened more often than not.)

But then his deep voice made a reappearance. “I also called…because the timetable’s moved up.”

Barbara’s breathing hitched, choking in her chest. She hit the brakes on the cycle, just barely missing the bumper of the car in front of her. The air around her seemed to buzz with tension as she waited for the light to go green again, and she could feel a cold shiver shaking its way up the back of her spine.

“How soon are we talking?” she asked. Her voice was quiet. Barely above a whisper. “I don’t have everything ready, yet. If we’re talking weeks, then I might be able to—”

“We’re talking two weeks. Maybe three. Tops.”

She couldn’t draw in a breath. Her chest was tight. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry. But there are things happening here that…” He cut off. “We’re running out of time. Something’s going down, and it’s going down soon. Can you be ready in three days?”

Her hand fluttered to the side of her helmet. “Is it…is it going to be that soon?”

“I can’t know for sure, so it’s just a precaution. But…can you?”

Barbara’s head bobbed, even though she knew Cal couldn’t see it. She pulled ahead of the car in front of her, and sped off down the asphalt. The tires screeched a little. She barely noticed as she made one turn, then another, then another. Soon, she could see the ocean on the horizon, and the bright lights of Amusement Mile and the Haly’s Circus glittering against the dark beach. Just a few more minutes, and she could put everything—the data, the files, the cases, the _mission—_ out of her head completely.

“I can,” Barbara finally said. “I just hope you’re right, Cal.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dick almost felt sorry for unleashing his siblings on Amusement Mile.

Introduced to Gotham in the early twentieth century for the World’s Fair, Amusement Mile was a gargantuan wooden boardwalk that stretched out over the harbor. Big enough and thick enough to support a fifty-foot Ferris Wheel and an army of food trucks, vendors, booths, and carnival rides and games. At certain times of the year, they even brought in a roller coaster or two.

It was so huge, in fact, that it could support all of that _and_ the entirety of the Haly’s Circus. Dick could see the red and white striped tents poking up from the rest of the noise and color, and felt a surge of nostalgia that threatened to, as Steph put it, ‘break his freaking face from smiling so much’.

He gave the others instructions—go, have fun, wreak havoc (but not _too_ much havoc, please) and meet up by the Big Top at nine-thirty to find seats for the show. Everyone paired up, Older-Damian and Terry, Jason and Steph (to the surprise of literally no one) and Tim and Damian (to the surprise of literally _everyone)._

“Are…are you two going to be okay?” Dick asked them, tilting his head to one side. He was already seeing visions of raging fires and screaming civilians play on mental repeat, and he shuddered. The others must have been thinking something along the same lines, because Jason had gone very pale, and Stephanie’s eye was twitching slightly.

Dick supposed he couldn’t really blame them. Tim and Damian _volunteering_ to be buddies…? It was almost too much to believe.

Damian looked away, down towards the Ferris Wheel. “Tt. Please, Grayson. Drake and I are not toddlers. We can put aside our differences for ninety minutes.”

Tim crossed his arms, but nodded casually. “Yeah, Dick. We’re good. Damian’s never been on a roller coaster before, anyway, so somebody has to show him.”

Steph and Jason were still gaping. But when the youngest set wandered off towards the rides, they recovered quickly. Especially once the rich scent of deep-fried carnival food wafted over to envelop them in its warm embrace. Stephanie’s nostrils flared, and her pupils dilated.

“Sweetheart?” she mumbled to Jason. “I have a sudden, inexplicable urge to devour anything and _everything_ in my path.”

“Cool, cool.” Jason dug into his wallet, thumbing through the folded bills inside. “I think we can afford enough to put at least one vendor out of business. And—hold up. Is that fried _soda?”_

Steph’s eyes glowed angelically in the light of the sunset as she gazed reverently towards the food booths. “We have found the promised land, Jaybird. The. _Promised. Land.”_

And just like that, they were off. Dick hoped for the sake of their cholesterol that they wouldn’t take things too far.

Older-Damian and Terry waved as they made their way towards a kiosk filled to the brim with stuffed animals and souvenir sunglasses. Dick could have sworn he heard Terry mutter, “How much you wanna bet that Old Man Grayson’s head’ll explode if we bring him back a prehistoric pair of ray bans?”

He shook his head, and wished his future-self ‘good luck.

Then, he turned to the circus tent.

His feet carried him there as he looked up, never taking his eyes off the worn stripes. In some places, the canvas had worn thin, and in others, it had worn _so_ thin that it had needed to be patched up by the circus handymen. Almost mechanically, he pulled aside the closed tent flap, and stepped inside.

A wave of smell and warmth and nostalgia hit him like a truck. People rushed around, leaving trails of perfume or cologne or even the smell of someone who worked closely with animals behind them. They were bustling around quickly, adjusting their sequined costumes and wigs as they went. A few of them spared him sidelong glances, but were in too much of a hurry to do anything more than that.

Dick couldn’t help the smile that stretched up his face as he shoved his hands into his pockets and strode forwards. There was something almost familiar about…all of this. Some strange sense of déjà vu that made his head spin like a baton. But he chose to ignore it, and instead took in everything else. Dick’s neck craned, looking up at the stands, at the hanging banners and signs and decorations that glittered softly in the faded light. His eyes trailed up to the top of the tent, where his eyes naturally used to go, back when he, Magda and Johnny used to lay out on their backs in the center ring and exchange jokes or stories in musical Romani.

And then his eyes caught the support poles. The trapeze.

_‘Llllaaaaaaadiiiies and gentlemeeeeen! The Flyyyyiiinggg Graysoooons!’_

Cheers erupted in his head as he stared up at the trapeze, making him wince slightly. Other sounds played next. The stretch of the line as it swung, the sound of his mother’s hands clapping against his father’s. The laugh that jingled out of Magda’s throat as she and Johnny swung out to meet the rest of them.

Then a creak. A low, shuddering creak.

A snap.

_‘John, what was that?’_

_‘MAMI! TATI!’_

And then an explosion of terrified screams as the crowd watched six of the Flying Graysons fall from the sky.

Something shook his shoulder, and he snapped to attention.

“Hey, pal! Did you hear me? You can’t come in here, yet! You—”

The guy’s voice cut off sharply, and Dick swiveled around to get a better look. Curly brown hair fell over half of his face, but Dick could still see the wide hazel eyes staring right back at him, and they both took a step back.

 _“Zane?”_ Dick asked, grinning.

“D-Dick Grayson.” Zane’s jaw dropped, and he reached up to card his fingers through his hair. Then, his face split into a mile-wide grin. “Holy $#*^. Hey! Hey, everybody!” He turned, cupping his hands over his mouth to call out to the rest of the Big Top. “You’ll never guess what the elephants dragged in!”

All over the tent, people looked up and over. Some of them raised eyebrows or shrugged indifferently, and Dick found that he didn’t recognize any of them. But others…others jerked to attention, grinning and laughing and making their way over, setting aside anything they’d been holding or working on.

The circus strongman chortled, thundering over. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Little Dickie! All grown up and still so small.”

The man was tall as an oak tree and twice as thick. Dick remembered him as the kind of man who was strong enough to lift a Volkswagen but gentle enough to help the circus kids rescue a fledgling that had fallen from its nest and place it back into a tree. In his mind’s eye, Dmitri Zirkovski had been a giant, and now that he was older (and taller)…that image had not changed.

Dick arched his neck to stare up at Zirkovski, beaming. “’Sup, Big Z? Been a long time.”

Zirkovski ruffled his hair, snickering fondly.

“Goodness gracious, me!” An elderly woman reached up to cup Dick’s chin in her wrinkly palm. Her fortune teller’s robes were a sparkling burgundy, and one of her eyes was forever squinted shut. Dick recognized her instantly as Sidra Antonescu, of the Antonescu Sister’s Fantastical Fortunes. They’d joined the circus on an Eastern European tour when Dick had been three, and they’d been fixtures ever since. “You look _just_ like your father, may his soul rest in peace!”

“No, no,” the woman’s twin sister corrected, adjusting her blue beaded shawl with a huff. “He is the spitting image of Mari. Just look at that nose!”

Dick smiled a little, hearing the old nickname for his mother. But then the first woman yanked him down by his shirt collar and said, “Nonsense! Just look at those eyes! Those are _Grayson_ eyes, Sorina! He—”

“Ladies, ladies,” A voice drawled. “Leave the man alone, wontcha?”

Bryan Haly walked up, flanked by two other men. Dick recognized the smiling middle-aged one on his left as Giuseppe Russo, one of the Bullmen who took care of the elephants. The frowning one on his right was Jimmy Clark, Circus Clown.

“Dick!” Bryan’s arms wrapped around Dick’s shoulders. He sounded surprised to see him. “What are you doing here?”

Dick laughed, patting his old friend’s back. “Um…I’m here for opening ceremonies? The flyers all said it was tonight.”

To prove his point, he pulled away from the hug, and eased the folded piece of blue paper from his jeans pocket. Sure enough, right there in black ink, was the date and time of the first show.

Bryan squinted at it. “That…can’t be right,” he muttered. “We’re still in the middle of setups and intensives. Jimmy, what does the website say?”

Jimmy huffed and tapped at his phone. Dick frowned a little. “You guys have a website? Since when?”

“Since the internet became a thing?” Jimmy held up the phone, cocking one eyebrow. “Opener’s _tomorrow.”_

Bryan smiled, visibly relieved. “Ah. Whoops. Must’ve been a typo.”

Dick’s frown deepened. “Yeah. Guess so. Is it a bad time, then, or…?”

Bryan’s smile seemed a bit forced. He slicked his hair back with one hand, eyes darting over to Jimmy. “Well, uh. It’s not like it’s a bad _time,_ per se. We’ve just got…a lot on our plates at the moment. So…”

Dick could take a hint. He threw a thumb over his shoulder, and turned to leave. “I can stop by later? Catch tomorrow’s show maybe?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that might be better.” Bryan relaxed a little. So did Giuseppe and Jimmy. The two of them turned to leave and started chatting with each other in low voices, Giuseppe gesturing vaguely, and Jimmy nodding along. As soon as the others had wandered off, Dick turned around, feet already carrying him towards the exit.

Just as he’d stepped out into the open air, a hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks.

Bryan sighed heavily. “Listen, Dickie. I’m sorry. There’s just…a lot going down right now.”

Dick shrugged, unintentionally prompting his old friend to lower his hand. As they both stepped out from under the tent flap, he tried to play it off with a plastered-on smile. “It’s good, man. Just wanted to stop in and see everybody. It’s been so long.”

“Yeah,” Bryan said. His eyes roved over Dick carefully, then he wet his lips and said, “But…tell you what. Come by tomorrow. Bring your girlfriend if you want. And your…uh, family, right? I heard that Wayne guy took in a few other kids. Bring anybody you want, and…I mean, if you want…would you want to join us tomorrow night?”

Dick’s heart stilled in his chest. “What?”

“Join us. Y’know, like, in the ring.” Bryan smiled hesitantly, searching his face. Then, that smile curled into something a little more devious. “That is, if you’re still good on a wire.”

He scoffed. A hand fluttered up to his chest in mock offense. “Still good on a–? Hey, I’ll have you know that I haven’t exactly been slouching all these years. If anything, I’m better than ever! I could swing circles around any of your other—”

“Any of his other, _what_ , exactly?”

A smooth voice made Dick’s words die in his throat. A hand pulled aside the tent flap, decorated with multiple glittering rings and bangles. As the woman slid lightly out of the Big Top, his mouth went dry. Her eyes shone, almost laughing at him as he took her in. Her outfit was almost blinding, covered in gleaming multicolored sequins, and a blue feather was perched in her hair. Dick wet his lips, and finally regained the ability to speak.

“…Raya?”

Raya Vestri had been a little girl in pigtails the last time that Dick had seen her. Always hanging around his family, and always eager to learn the ropes. _Literally._ His mother had trained her in aerial performance, and Dick had grown up learning how to fly right alongside her.

Now, she was…

Smiling sweetly, she cocked an eyebrow and placed a jingling hand on her hip. “Long time, no see.”

Bryan grinned, and waved her over. “You remember Raya, then? Good. She’s one of our flyers, now. Boy, you should _see_ her on the trap’s. It’s a sight to behold!”

Raya blushed, laughing as she waved a dismissive hand through the air. “Cut it out, Bry. I’m _passable._ At best.”

She sauntered forwards, and Dick was suddenly made _very_ aware just how much his childhood playmate had…grown up. Long red hair hung in waves down to her lower back, and her freckles seemed much more pronounced in the light. She was lean and tall, but her still-substantial hips swung as she walked, until she stopped just bare inches away from him. Her eyes glittered in the waning sunlight as she reached up and cupped his jaw in her soft hand.

“You’ve changed, Grayson,” she muttered. Her lashes fluttered, and so did Dick’s heartrate.

“Uh…”

And then, before he had the chance to come up with anything more intelligent, she moved.

Raya’s lips locked onto his, her arms sliding around his neck.

The kiss was soft, lingering. But any and all thought in his mind turned to shock. His eyes shot open wide, and he placed both hands under her arms, trying to push her away.

“Mmph!” he protested. “ _Mph-Nph!”_

The kiss broke with a wet _pop,_ and her arms crossed tight over her chest. Raya’s eyes were wide as she stared up at him. Something like hurt flitted over her face. “Dick—?”

Dick shook his head, taking one step back. Then, another. “Rai, it is _so_ good to see you again. But I’m not—”

A throat cleared nearby, and all eyes turned to stare at the woman stepping over, eyes blazing. Her hair fluttered in the breeze, and she looked for all the world like an avenging warrior stalking into battle. Here to defend her lover’s honor.

“Hi, sweetie,” Barbara said, shooting Dick a sweet smile. “Sorry I’m late.”

A relieved grin broke on Dick’s face. “Babs.”

Their fingers brushed in greeting, and Barbara turned to Bryan and Raya. Dick couldn’t help but stare; she looked _incredible._ Her long red hair—shorter than Raya’s and much darker—curled around her shoulders. She wore a loose semi-sheer white blouse, covered with a fitted leather jacket that clung to her figure in all the right places. The tight jeans that hugged her hips lovingly were also a pleasant distraction, along with the knee-high black boots.

He didn’t miss the knit yellow scarf around her neck, though. Probably to hide the bruises.

 _The bruises_ you _gave her,_ he thought with a stab of guilt.

Barbara stretched out a hand, and her smile shifted into something a little more poisonous. “Name’s Barbara Pennyworth,” she said, smoothly. “I don’t believe we’ve _met.”_

Raya’s eyes flicked up to Barbara’s, then down to her extended fingers. Then, hesitantly, she grasped the other woman’s hand. “Raya Vestri. I’m a friend of Dick’s.”

Barbara looked like she was baring her teeth, now, instead of smiling. “So I gathered.”

Bryan was shooting him a wide-eyed apologetic glance. Dick couldn’t blame the guy for his blatant fear; Barbara looked about ready to snap Raya’s neck. The two women were chatting airily through their teeth. ‘Oh, I love your shirt, where did you get it?’ and ‘Nice hair, you’ve gotta tell me how you styled it’ and all that jazz.

Dick wasn’t worried at all. Barbara had other ways of ‘staking her claim’, and he didn’t mind in the slightest.

After a few minutes, Barbara looked over at him, her expression a picture of grace and innocence. “Babe, did you get us seats for the show?”

Dick shrugged, and locked eyes with Bryan Haly once again. “Funny enough, there seems to be a typo on the fliers. The show’s _tomorrow_ night.”

Barbara shrugged, and stepped over to his side. “Oh. That’s too bad. Guess we’ve got a lot of time on our hands to kill, don’t we?”

She raised one eyebrow, and the corner of her lips quirked coyly.

Dick matched her expression. “That so?”

“Mmm, hmm.” She trailed her fingers up the sleeve of his jacket. The gesture was familiar and gentle, and it made his heart beat just a little faster in his chest. “I think, since we’re here, we should take a look around. I saw this _adorable_ stuffed elephant on the way in. You should win it for me.”

He laughed, and looped and arm over her shoulder. His head dipped down, and she rose on her toes to meet him halfway. Their lips met.

It was a quick kiss, more for show than for anything. But when they pulled apart, Dick could see it had had its intended effect. Raya’s eyes were open in shock, and her gaze darted away sheepishly.

“I’m so sorry,” she said quickly. “I had no idea you were with someone, Dickie.”

She stepped forward, and pulled Barbara into a hug. His girlfriend seemed startled by the gesture and looked to him for help, but all Dick could do was shrug his shoulders. He was just as confused as she was.

“I’m buying you lunch, Barbara,” Raya said firmly. She stepped back out of the hug and smiled softly. “To make up for it. Is tomorrow okay? While the boys practice?”

“Practice…?” Barbara was met with another shrug, so she turned to Raya and managed a small smile in return. “That sounds like fun. I’ll call you, alright? Here’s my number…”

The girls exchanged numbers with shy giggles, then Barbara squared her shoulders and linked arms with Dick. With a small salute the circus performers’ way, she led him off down the boardwalk.

Their steps matched stride for stride as they made their way through the colorfully lit carnival. Dick couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of his throat. A few people glanced over, but they didn’t pay them much more attention than that.

Barbara shot him a side glance. “What’s so funny?”

Dick nudged her shoulder, grinning. “You.”

“Me?” One corner of her lips twitched up.

“Yeah.” He huffed out another laugh. They stumbled a little, but righted themselves quickly. “You looked like you were about to breathe fire. How…much of that did you see?”

“Enough.” Barbara shrugged her shoulders, and looked off towards the horizon. They’d reached the end of the boardwalk, and looked out on the open sea. The sun had almost completely disappeared, now, leaving the world painted in rich blues and purples. Just above the line where the ocean met sky, there was a slice of yellow-y orange. It caught the blue of Barbara’s irises, and made them glow. Dick found he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

After a few seconds, she started, and her eyes darted up to meet his gaze. “Um…what?”

In response, he only smiled softly, reaching up with one hand to move a rusty red curl away from her cheek. As he tucked it behind her ear, he leaned close and whispered. “You are so beautiful.”

A warm flush glowed on her cheeks, and she bit her lip. “Heh. Well. You’re not too bad, yourself, Grayson.”

“I know,” he shot back, waving a hand. It earned a soft laugh from his girlfriend, but he still sobered a little. “Babs. Just so you know, that kiss back there. That wasn’t…” He shrugged helplessly, but she seemed to catch his meaning.

A slow smile lit up her face, and she elbowed him in the side. Gently, but just hard enough that he let out a yelp. Then laughed “Hey!”

“I know, Wingnut” she said, smirking. “Besides, you didn’t exactly look like you were enjoying yourself.”

He opened his mouth to offer up some witty comeback or quip, but paused when he noticed she’d turned to face him, and there was a look of quiet determination on her features. Slowly, her hands reached upwards, and she gently cupped his face in both her palms.

One of her thumbs traced his cheek, and she rose up on her tiptoes to meet him.

Barbara’s lips were impossibly soft and quietly warm. She tilted her head slightly to deepen the kiss, and Dick parted his lips to reciprocate. He placed his hands just above her hipbones, pulling her flush to him, and she let out a soft moan. For an eternity, they tasted and felt and let the chill ocean breeze weave through their hair and over their skin. Something warm and wanting lit up in his chest. Barbara must have felt it too; she nipped at his bottom lip once, then pulled away.

Her eyes were bright. The soft smile on her face was even brighter.

“Wow,” he breathed. He reached out and brushed his thumb just under her eye, and her smile widened.

“I want you to know, Dick Grayson,” she said warmly, raising a hand to curl her fingers around his wrist. “That I _trust_ you. Completely. No matter what.”

At that, his smile dipped slightly, and his hand dropped. He leaned against the metal and concrete railing, and turned to stare out at the lapping waves. “I trust you, too. With anything.”

Barbara bit her lip. As she mirrored him, his posture, his expression, and his long gaze out into the harbor, he could almost feel something shifting and churning inside of her. Unsaid things that she wanted to tell him, and secrets that she must not have been sure she wanted to part with.

But Barbara cleared her throat after a few moments. And said, carefully, “I know I haven’t been the best at… _sharing._ Lately. And I’ve been…a bit of a &*!$#.”

Dick scoffed. “Not a &*!$#. Just…distant.” _And explosive_ , he thought, _and a bit paranoid and self-focused._ But it wasn’t like he could blame her. He couldn’t bring himself to. Barbara was always this way when October rolled around, and this year, with Bruce gone and so many other things on their collective plates… “I’ve been worried about you.”

“I know.” Barbara’s face fell. Her fingers traced the horizontal metal poles they leaned against, and her eyes contemplated the dying light in the distance. Dick watched her carefully, trying to decipher the look on her face. The line between her thin eyebrows, the carefully (though not completely) concealed circles under her eyes, and even the tired droop of her shoulders. There was something weighing on her mind, and whatever it was, it was heavy. Dick wished that she would tell him what it was. He wished that he could _fix_ it.

He already had a few ideas. Ideas that involved blood and pain and old wounds that hadn’t ever healed right. He wasn’t exactly oblivious, and he knew more than he was willing to let on. Especially when it came to the person he was closest with in this world. But, he hoped…

“Dick,” Barbara breathed, finally. She looked over at him, and her expression was pained. “I’m sorry. There’s so much I want to tell you, but there’s so much I just _can’t._ Not yet.”

On the railing, her fingers tightened. Dick reached over, and laid his hand gently over them, and she stilled slightly.

“Babs. It’s okay.”

She shook her head listlessly, mouth twisting into something regretful. “No. It isn’t. We’re a team, and I should be able to—”

“Hey.”

Her voice died out when Dick pulled her close. His arms wrapped themselves around her shoulders, pressing her tight to his chest. Her breathing turned shaky, and he squeezed tighter.

“Babs, I don’t care, if you don’t tell me everything,” Dick said, not sure if he was trying to convince her…or himself. “You’ve been under an unbelievable amount of stress, and you’ve had to make some hard calls. I promise, I _understand.”_

In his arms, Barbara went completely still.

“I still trust you,” Dick continued softly. “I still love you. No matter what it is, no matter what’s going on…that’s not changing. Ever.”

Their embrace lasted a few minutes more as they stood there together, silent and listening. Dick could tell that Barbara was crying, and the thought made something in his heart twist painfully. But eventually, her breathing slowed, and her shoulders stopped shaking. She tilted her head up, and looked him in the eye.

“I love you, too,” she whispered, eyes glistening. “More than anything.”

And as he smiled, the sudden thought came flashing into his mind.

_Now._

Dick reached down to his belt. “Babs. I—” When his fingers probed at one of the loops, he paused. Then he felt a flush heat up his cheeks.

 _The ring,_ he thought, _is in the_ belt _on the_ suit. _And the_ suit _is in the_ cave, _you absolute idiot._

Barbara sniffed, and wiped at her eyes with her fingers. “Hm?”

“Uh, n-nothing,” Dick stammered. He managed a smile, though, and grasped one of her soft hands. “I just think…we’ve both been working hard and haven’t had a lot of time to ourselves. And, look—” He nodded to the carnival behind them. Now that the sun was down, the neon lights had grown exponentially in number, turning the boardwalk into a multicolored, flashing wonderland. Music was blaring from several different speakers at once, and between that and the laughter and chatter of a thousand different people, plus the clacking and clattering of the rides and games, it was all a cacophony of beautiful chaos. “We just so happen to be at a carnival. You know, rides, games, and enough fatty food to send us to an early grave! Let’s go enjoy it.”

Her expression melted into a touched smile, and she giggled, wiping the last of the tears from her eyes.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Okay. That does sound like fun. But…there’s something you should know first.”

Dick paused. “Yeah?”

Barbara squeezed his hand once. Twice. Three times. Then, slowly, she batted her eyelashes and glanced up at him. “I lied about the stuffed elephant. Total spur-of-the-moment bull$#^!.”

Dick gaped, then tipped his head back and laughed. Hard.

“I still expect you to win me a prize, though, Wingnut,” she huffed, tipping her nose up.

“Hey, babe.” He pulled her towards the brightly colored melee. “For you? Anything.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Tim wouldn’t exactly call himself an ‘expert’ in terms of cutting loose and having fun. It was one thing the Titans had always teased him about. Whenever they got together for movie nights or pizza parties, he usually wound up in front of a screen or off to the side working on one project or another. Even with his family, it was sometimes harder for him to match Jason’s or Stephanie’s ideas of a good time.

But as much as Tim was a stick-in-the-mud…Damian was so much _worse._

He took the kid to one of the bouncy castles they had set up for younger children. It was big enough to fit several adults, too, so a few little kids were inside with one or both of their parents. After enduring a death-glare hot enough to melt concrete, Tim had dragged Damian inside and hopped with him. It took him a few seconds to understand what they were supposed to do…(“Drake, what is the purpose of this?” “It’s _fun,_ Damian.” “How?” “You jump. That’s the _point.”_ )  but eventually, he seemed to get the gist.

After the bounce house, Tim had started to give Damian’s bleak childhood some intensive thought. And when he took the kid for a ride on one of the roller coasters—and Damian didn’t even _flinch—_ his suspicions were somewhat confirmed.

In the line for the Ferris Wheel, Tim turned to Damian and said, carefully. “You’ve never done anything like this. Have you?”

Damian was busy squinting at the cotton candy in his hand. He gripped the paper cone like a spear, regarding the fluffy green substance with suspicion.

“What _is_ this?” he muttered, ignoring Tim’s question completely.

Tim sighed, and took a bite of his own blue tuft. “’S cotton candy,” he managed around a mouthful of blue raspberry flavoring. When it had all melted away, he swallowed down the last of the flavor and said, “It’s good. Promise.”

That seemed to convince the kid. He plucked off a wispy clump with his fingers, sniffed it, then hesitantly stuck it in his mouth. Damian’s eyes widened by a fraction, and he looked up at Tim incredulously. “It tastes like _apples.”_

“Green apples,” Tim clarified. “And, yeah. Would you rather have the pink kind? We can—”

Damian stuffed another clump in his mouth. “This is satisfactory.”

At that, Tim actually managed a smile. As the line shuffled forward, they exchanged a few clipped pieces of small talk, or comments about the weather or their siblings’ eating habits.

“Think Steph’ll put herself in another food coma?”

“Tt. I am willing to wager ten dollars that it’ll be Todd.”

And when their turn finally came, the ride operator held the door open for them, leaned over to check that they’d buckled themselves in properly, then sent them up and on their way.

From up here, they could see the entire boardwalk. Spinning and flickering lights, people shoving and laughing and having a good time. If he squinted, Tim could have sworn he was able to see Jason at one of those rigged carnival games. And he might’ve caught sight of Terry over by a souvenir kiosk.

Damian, though, was staring out at the ocean.

The waves were dark and flowing. Occasionally, one of the crests would catch the light from the boardwalk and glitter brightly. It was deep and mysterious, and almost peaceful, in a way. Damian was still enough that Tim hesitated to say anything. But, hesitantly, he reached over and nudged his shoulder.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Damian hummed, and raised an eyebrow. He never broke eye contact with the horizon. “Yes, Drake? Are you bored yet?”

He sighed. “No, Damian. Just figured you’d wanna talk. That’s what people usually do on these rides.”

“Is it?” Damian was quiet for another eternity, and Tim noticed his eyes squint slightly. When he finally ripped his gaze away from the ocean, he glared at Tim with venom. “Or is this—all of this—just an excuse to corner me about what my future self said earlier?”

 _& *^#. _Tim resisted the urge to grimace. The kid had always been smarter than he looked, after all. But he swallowed hard and said, “I like spending time with you, Damian. But I just thought…if, you know…you wanted to _talk_ about it…I’m here.”

His little brother huffed, and crossed his arms tight over his chest.

The ride creaked as the last of the cars was loaded. Now, the Ferris Wheel could spin at a constant rate. Tim glanced down, and noted with some relief that there was just enough distance between each of the individual cars that it would be impossible for anyone to hear them if they kept their voices down.

“If you don’t,” Tim said, shrugging. “I get it.”

Damian was silent.

“I understand, you know. And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, ‘cause it’s none of my business. Just in case you needed to tell someone, I’m…here for you, y’know?” Tim mirrored Damian’s posture, arms crossed tightly. This was not going well. “But if you ever need—"

“Drake.”

Tim shut up. He studied his little brother carefully, taking care to note the line between his brows. The angry and embarrassed way his mouth turned down as he hunched his shoulders. His green eyes darted to the side, to the canopy of their car, then down to the bottom where they’d tucked their feet.

“I…” Damian bit his lip, hesitating. “I don’t like to talk about it.”

Tim nodded. He expected that to be the end of it. But Damian shifted a little in his seat, and added, quietly, “But…if you _promise_ never to tell the others…”

“Of course not.” Tim softened. “I promise.”

Damian’s expression was fierce, eyes wide as he snarled. “Because if you do, I can _assure_ you that they will never find your remains.”

Tim nodded again, not wanting to say anything that would make his little brother uncomfortable. They settled into a strange silence as the ride lifted them higher. The soft swinging of the car combined with Tim’s promise of confidentiality both seemed to ease Damian’s nerves a little. He deflated slightly, but stuck his chin out.

“It is…true,” he said softly. “I began to notice it only a short time ago, but…I have experienced attraction for females…as well as males.”

Damian’s eyes flicked up sharply once he’d finished, searching Tim’s face for any sign of disgust or confusion. But all Tim would give him was a small, gentle smile.

“Okay,” he said.

“What?” Damian sat up a little, blinking in confusion. His frown was tight. “Are you not confused? Appalled? Speak to me, Drake.”

Tim leaned back in his seat a little. “Why would I be appalled?”                                                               

Damian reared back. “Because it is _wrong.”_ He spluttered, looking away. “If my mother knew, or…or my grandfather—”

“Damian.” Tim raised a hand, cutting his little brother off. “First of all, your mom is a world-class &*!$#--no offense—and your grandfather’s ranked pretty high up there, too.” He leaned forward, and reached, putting a soft hand on Damian’s shoulder. “Second of all, your feelings are not _wrong._ They don’t make _you_ wrong. Do you understand?”

Damian hesitated, so Tim went on.

“Third of all, I’m not _appalled._ And the truth is? None of the others would be, either.”

His little brother scowled. “And why is that?”

Tim managed a smile. “You might not have noticed, kiddo, but we all care about you. A lot.”

Damian’s eyes widened.

“You’re our _brother,_ Damian,” Tim continued, keeping his voice soft and soothing. “And while it’s kinda cliché to put it this way…we all love you no matter what.”

“Truly? I was under a much different impression.” Damian looked away, and the pout returned full force. “ _You_ have never approved of me, Drake.”

Tim felt a stab of remorse. Had he and the kid had their differences? Of course, they had. Damian had come into their lives unannounced, and left a trail of destruction behind him. He’d replaced Tim and taken his mantle. He’d tried to pass his transition to Red Robin off as a ‘need for change’, but Tim suspected he wasn’t really fooling anyone. Damian had taken the Robin suit, and there was only room for one Robin in the Batcave. And…maybe it was petty for him to think about it, but…sometimes he also felt like Damian had also inadvertently taken away his older sibling’s love and attention to some degree. At least, at first. And Bruce…

But Tim could remember a time, years ago, when he’d been just as desperate to prove himself. When he’d looked at the rest of his newfound family and realized that they’d left him some pretty %*&$^#& huge combat boots to fill.

He’d seen Jason’s face, when they’d met for the first time. The anger, the hurt, the betrayal. And he remembered not being able to understand any of it. There he was, a new Robin, just trying to do his best…and his predecessor was out to make him pay for it.

“I know,” Tim said softly. His arms tightened over his chest. He shivered. The cold breeze that was skimming off the ocean was bone-chilling. But he caught his little brother’s gaze with a sad frown. Then, he let out a sigh, and shifted in his seat.

“Did I ever tell you how I became Robin?”

The kid’s eyebrow quirked up slightly. Tim almost let out a nervous chuckle. Where was this conversation going anyway? First they were talking about food, and then they’d made the fluid transition into sexuality, and now they were going to do this? Okay, then.

Tim steeled himself. Swallowed. Cleared his throat. Then, “I was thirteen.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed, but he settled into his seat, listening patiently.

“My parents were…well, they did their best. But, I mean, let’s face it. Between the two of them—the multi-millionaire tech-firm founder father and the lecture-giving-doctor-of-philosophy mother—they didn’t have a ton of time for their accidental offspring.” Tim chuckled darkly. “I wasn’t supposed to happen, you know. But since I _did,_ I was supposed to be the best mistake they ever made. They didn’t come to my first school play, but they did get me into the best boarding school in the country. Told me nice things like, ‘don’t come home for Christmas unless your report card shows us straight A’s’ and stuff like that.”

A line appeared between Damian’s brows. “Drake…”

“Nah, it’s okay.” Tim shrugged. “It’s the best thing they could’ve done for me, turns out. The school was just one town over from Gotham, you know? So all of us used to watch the news and look outside the windows at night hoping to see Batman and Robin.” He looked down at the boardwalk. “Sometimes we saw them. And it was awesome. But…a few months into my stay there, the news reports stopped showing Robin. It was just Batman, Nightwing and Batgirl. And they all seemed…they seemed _off_ somehow. I don’t think anyone else noticed it, and I used to wonder sometimes it I was looking too much into it, but—”

“Off?” Damian’s head tilted slightly.

“Violent. Detached. They were getting sloppy, reckless. Fights that used to be easy almost killed them a few times.” Tim pursed his lips, then continued. “It didn’t take me long to put two and two together to figure out that Robin was no longer in the picture. Jason had died, and it had almost ripped the family apart. So I did what any concerned, brilliant-yet-unchallenged kid would do. I had to find the Bats, and I needed to convince Nightwing to become Robin again.”

“Grayson?” Damian sat up a little straighter. “Why Grayson? Why not demand the mantle for yourself?”

Honestly, vigilante life had been the furthest thing from his mind. Thirteen-year-old Tim Drake had spent his whole life looking at problems and finding solutions to those problems. Mommy and Daddy only gave him their love when he got good grades? Solution: claw his way to the top. Corrupt administration at his old boarding school? Solution: hack the systems and dig up any and all dirt on every single authority figure who beat the kids or took bribes from parents.

Batman almost died in a fight with Mr. Freeze? Solution: Get to his partners.

“Who better to help Batman than Robin?” Tim asked with another shrug. “And I was smart enough back then to figure out pretty quick that Nightwing was the first Robin. Once I started looking deeper, I found out that Nightwing was actually Dick Grayson, because I watched this flip he did off a building that I recognized from old MeTube videos of the Flying Grayson routines. I dug deeper, found out that Dick was living with Bruce Wayne, who, by the way, was not only rich enough to pull off the whole ‘Batman’ deal, but also incidentally had another young ward who had been killed overseas. When I knew all that, I biked all the way to Wayne manor and snuck in.”

Admittedly, not the smartest thing he could have done. But at the time, it had seemed like a great idea.

Tim had made it ten feet past the front door when the all-seeing, all-knowing Alfred Pennyworth had caught him red-handed. And Tim, in a moment of panic, had blurted out that he knew everything and demanded to see Bruce Wayne.

The old butler’s expression hadn’t changed, but his eyebrows did climb up his forehead.

_“Indeed, young man? And how, pray tell, did you sort that out?”_

Alfred watched him carefully through his whole explanation, and his expression softened more and more with every word. Maybe he’d looked at the animated teenaged boy in front of him and thought of another enthusiastic, dark-haired young man. Whatever the case, Tim had been led into a hidden elevator behind a grandfather clock. And when he’d stepped out, his life had never been the same.

The Ferris Wheel ground to a halt, and it’s blinking lights dimmed before going out completely.

 _“Attention, ladies and gentlemen.”_ The ride operator’s voice crackled over the tinny speaker in the car. _“Due to technical difficulties, the ride will be stalled for an undetermined amount of time. For your safety, please remain seated with all limbs inside the car at all times and seatbelts securely in place. Thank you for your patience and understanding.”_

Damian blinked over at Tim, and shrugged. “Well, carry on, then, Drake.”

He told Damian about that moment he stepped out of the elevator. He could still remember the hollow sound of Bruce’s fingers flying over the Batcomputer’s keyboard. Dick and Barbara had been leaning against the desk beside their mentor, glaring up at the blue screen through narrowed eyes. The first time Tim had seen his older brother and sister, they had seemed like powerful behemoths, larger than life and twice as frightening. Even though they’d been the same age he was now (and _that_ was strange to think about), when Dick and Barbara turned towards him and Alfred, and when he saw the insignias on their chests, Tim had been filled with a jolting mixture of fear and awe.

And then, Bruce had stood up.

“Needless to say,” Tim chuckled. “ _That_ was a pretty awkward conversation. But Dick was pretty adamant about not going back to the Robin mantle. Bruce decided I knew too much, so it wasn’t like they could just let me _leave._ So, they gave me a mask and a cape, and started training me.” Tim threw his hands out to the side and smiled. “And the rest is history.”

For a few tense moments, Damian just stared at him. Then, he said, “Drake. That was an interesting monologue, but what was the point?”

Tim’s smile didn’t waver in the slightest. “The point? The point is this, Damian. Did you know that Dick hated me for the first few months I was Robin? He wouldn’t look me in the eye or give me the time of day. And Babs kept telling Bruce that she didn’t think I was cut out for hero work. That I was just a little snot-nosed kid who was gonna get himself killed.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “Impossible. Grayson and Delphi adore you.”

“They didn’t always, kiddo. And Jason? When he came back…” Tim let out a huff of laughter. “Boy, was _he_ just abso-&*$%^#&-lutely delighted.”

That one didn’t seem to surprise Damian quite as much. But Tim plowed on. “Point _is,_ Damian, that I found a family that loved me even if I wasn’t perfect all the time. My dad and I eventually reconciled after my mom died, but honestly? This is the family that was there for me. And we’ll be here for you, too.”

He paused, then added, “Maybe we’re all kinda bad at showing how we feel at first. We need to warm up to people before we let them in. And…” He trailed off for a few seconds, unsure of how to proceed. “No offense, kid, but you haven’t exactly made it easy.”

Damian’s face fell. “I know. I’m just…”

And then, Timothy Jackson Drake witnessed the most terrifying thing he’d seen in the last week at least. Damian’s eyes welled up, and the kid actually started _sniffling._

“I am afraid, Drake, that…” the kid whispered, his small voice cracking a little. “In my grandfather’s house, one must constantly strive to gain their comrades’ favor. I am afraid that…”

He hiccupped, unable to finish. His face was turning bright red, and Tim suspected that getting even _those_ words out had been painful. And letting Tim see him cry must have been excruciating.

“You’re afraid that if you do something wrong, or don’t meet our expectations,” Tim finished hollowly, “We’ll hate you. Or kick you out.”

Damian looked up. A single tear streaked down his cheek, and he wiped it away with an indignant huff.

But he didn’t disagree.

Tim took another sharp stab to the chest. “Damian,” he groaned. “We would _never_ do that.”

“Even if I displayed attraction towards men?” his little brother countered, eyes narrowed defensively. He swiped the back of his hand across his eyes and sniffed.

Tim reached down and unbuckled his seatbelt. With a sigh, he slid across the seat to sit next to the small pre-teen. Damian started, and stiffened when he felt Tim’s arms drape over his shoulders.

“You, little bro,” Tim said softly as he squeezed Damian’s shoulders, “Are still growing up, and have a lot of $#^% to figure out while you do. The best part, though, is that you don’t have to do all of that _right now._ Finding out who you are takes a long time, and knowing who you like is only a small piece of that. You shouldn’t let it define you too soon. But I _promise_ you, Damian. No matter who you turn out to be, or what you do with your life, your family’s always going to be there for you. We love you, kiddo.”

Damian’s hand reached up, and he curled his fingers around Tim’s wrist. He supposed that was the best he was going to get in terms of a hug from the kid. Honestly, he was probably lucky Damian hadn’t ripped his arms off yet. He’d made it clear before that he didn’t like uninvited human contact from anyone.

But the kid’s voice was soft as he said, “Thank you, Timothy. But you are starting to sound far too much like Grayson.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe that’s what I was going for?”

“I figured as much. You’re usually pretty terrible at this sort of thing.”

Tim scoffed, and unwound his arms from Damian’s shoulders. The kid was actually smirking up at him. The tears were almost gone, too. And if his eyes hadn’t been moist and bloodshot, Tim might never have guessed that his little brother had been crying at all.

With a shuddering creak, the ride’s lights flickered back on. Some recording of carnival music that Tim hadn’t noticed before started playing again as the Ferris Wheel started to turn again. Their car was close to the bottom when Tim had a sudden realization, and turned to Damian with his mouth open in shock.

“Wait. Did you just call me… _Timothy?”_

The ride operator unclipped the fastening chain and opened the car’s door for them. Damian slid out gracefully, and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Nonsense, Drake,” he said airily as Tim hopped out to join him. “You must have been hearing things. Now. Shall we go and procure some more of that ‘cotton candy’?”

Damian led him back down the boardwalk and towards the gigantic circus tent. It was almost time to meet the rest of the family for the Circus’s opening show, anyway, and Tim hoped the malfunction on the Ferris Wheel wouldn’t make them late.

“Thank you, Drake,” Damian mumbled. It was just quiet enough that, between the crowds and the music from the carnival, Tim almost missed it. “You are actually a decent older brother.”

Tim grinned all the way to the cotton candy cart.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“So…?”

Damian huffed, ignoring McGinnis as he reared back for another pitch. The ball sailed from his fingers and flew into the stacked tower of bottles. The force alone should have been enough to topple the entire structure—his brute strength had won him many battles against superior numbers in the past (or perhaps future, as it were?)—but instead, it was only the top bottle that clattered to the ground.

“Did you see that?” he demanded through his teeth. He turned to his partner, but Terry did not appear to be as outraged as he. The teenager only raised a single eyebrow.

“Sir, are you going to want another round? Or are you going to keep accusing me of ‘rigging my game’?” The vendor’s oily smirk was insufferable. Had Damian possessed even an ounce less of honor, he would have gladly slammed the man’s face into the bottles repeatedly until they _all_ fell.

He wanted that stuffed dragon, &*$# it!

“This,” McGinnis sighed, as a slow $#!^-eating grin spread up his face, “is so, _so_ sad.”

“I would take great pleasure in seeing _you_ beat this pathetic excuse of a game,” Damian snarled.

By way of reply, McGinnis pulled a rumpled five-dollar bill from his pocket and waved it tauntingly in the air before he slammed it onto the booth’s plywood surface. The vendor slid it greedily out of sight, and passed Terry three dirty softballs.

The teenager smirked over at him, and palmed the first ball. “Watch and learn, old man.”

The ball sailed through the air, and missed the stack of bottles completely. Damian’s lips curled up and he turned to his partner. But the taunt died on his tongue as the teenager shot a wink his way, and sent the next ball flying into the canvas backing of the booth.

“You’re wasting your shots on purpose,” Damian realized with a frown. “Why?”

“Eh, cause I don’t need ‘em. Watch me get it on the first try, and—if I make it—” Terry held up the last softball like it was a precious gem. His grin was positively evil as he said, “You have to tell everybody when we get back home.”

Damian bared his teeth. “They’d never believe it.”

“True, true, true.” Terry aimed, and reared back. His arm whipped forward, and the ball streaked from his hand. It hit right between the two bottles that made up the bottom layer, and the entire pyramid collapsed with a clamor. His partner whooped, punching a fist in the air, and crowed, “But I still get bragging rights!”

The vendor let out a heavy sigh, and Damian watched with flaring indignation as he passed the stuffed red and black dragon to his partner’s greedy fingers. Terry accepted the plushie with a smirk and as they stepped away from the booth, waved it in the air.

“Maybe I’ll give this to Dana. Wonder if she’d like it?”

Damian’s frown was lethal. “You,” he snarled, “Are in sufferable.”

“Ha! And _you,”_ Terry growled, matching his deeper tone, “Are a sore loser!”

Damian didn’t dignify that with a response, and instead, stalked forward with purpose. It was nearing time to meet up with the rest of his siblings. They’d all realize soon that the circus wouldn’t be holding its first show tonight, and would instead head out for patrol. While he’d been tempted to inform Grayson of this before they’d arrived at Amusement Mile, he’d opted instead to remain silent.

He could never be sure what he should say, and what would be far better left unsaid.

“So…” Terry prompted. He’d calmed a little, and was no longer taunting him with his stuffed trophy. “Like I was trying to ask before…is it weird? Seeing your family like this?”

At that, Damian managed a bitter-sweet smile. Seeing his older siblings had been an interesting experience, to be certain. “Yes, McGinnis. It has been…’weird’. But at the same time, it has been a positive experience, overall.”

Terry nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, well, I mean it’s cool to see ‘em all before they get all old and cranky. You know, like _you._ Though I guess you were always cranky, huh?”

Damian sniffed.

“Seriously, man,” McGinnis continued. Amusement sparked in his tone as he grinned out at the crowd. “You looked like an angry little chihuahua. Can’t believe you were ever that shrimpy.”

“Shall we move on?” Damian huffed. “I doubt that’s your only question.”

“And you’d be right on that count.” Terry’s eyes fixed themselves on a fried twinkie stand, and Damian shut that idea down before it ever had the chance to leave his partner’s lips. They continued their march through the pressing crowd, and McGinnis shot him a sidelong glance. “So here’s my next question. Are Dick and Barbara _always_ gonna be this lovey-dovey?”

“Tt.” Damian’s features alternated between a hesitant frown and a knowing smirk. “They have their moments, don’t they?”

“Yeah? How come I feel like that’s all your gonna say about that one?” Terry huffed, rolling his eyes as he clutched the dragon tighter. “Alright, D, how ‘bout this one, then. How much do you think they all know about…y’know?”

“I’m not sure I do,” Damian replied.

“About…” Terry swirled one hand in the air, prompting him as he raised his eyebrows meaningfully. When Damian did not respond, he snorted in annoyance. “Oh, c’mon.”

“Ah,” he gasped. “I see what you mean now.”

Terry groaned.

“Drake has his suspicions,” Damian said, nodding. “And Delphi is closer to the truth than even she knows. But so far, I doubt any of them have worked it out as of yet.”

“Delphi—? Oh, wait, yeah. The Commish, right?” Terry pursed his lips and eyed the crowd expectantly. “Alright, here’s another one. Where’s everyone else?”

“Everyone else?”

“Aw, don’t be like that, D. Stop yankin’ my chain. The _others?_ Signal? Bluebird? Maven? BlackBat? Crazy-military-Wayne-cousin-lady-I’m-not-suppposed-to-ask-questions-about?” Terry threw out his hands. “I mean, c’mon! The rest of your family’s pretty awesome in their prime, I’m not gonna lie. But half of ‘em are _missing.”_

Damian tilted his chin up. “McGinnis,” he said, “Not only have we landed before the Night of Owls, but we have also arrived before the Night of the Heretic and the schism. Most of the Family is missing because most of them have yet to be introduced. By my calculations, Cassandra is the closest to joining—”

“Ooh, it’d be totally schway if we got to see her here! Could she always kick your #$$? When does—”

“—but the others are still a ways off. At this moment, I suspect Duke is still in high school and looking at prospective colleges. Harper is living with her brother in the Narrows, doing her best to make ends meet. And I believe C—Maven is working four jobs to support her addict parents. As for Katherine… ” Damian glanced up at the approaching circus tent. His expression fell slightly, and Terry must have sensed his sadness, because he slowed his steps and studied his mentor curiously.

“Everything alright, man?” he asked softly.

Damian sighed, and shook his head. “Nothing, McGinnis. It’s just…” He swallowed and shrugged.

“Look,” McGinnis said. He stopped completely and laid a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “I know I’m not the most… _versed…_ in the Family History. But…Night of the Owls? And…you called it ‘Night of the Heretic’? Pretty sure you’re the only one who calls it that, but I know enough from the Commissioner and the old man to put two and two together.”

Damian nodded. “Yes. They _are_ truly in for it, aren’t they?”

A line appeared between Terry’s thin eyebrows, and his concerned frown betrayed his words before he could even speak them.

“What if…we warned them?”

That gave Damian pause. “What?”

“Think about it.” Terry waved a hand. “We could formulate some kind of plan with them before we go back, give them time to act on it, and then _bam!_ So many problems fixed if we just open our mouths _now,_ and—”

“We can’t, Terry.” Damian’s tone was drawn, and he felt guilt stab at his heart just by speaking the words. But that didn’t take away from their truth. “We can’t tell them anything.”

McGinnis’s mouth fell open. He spluttered. “What? Why? They’re your _family,_ D! No, never mind. Slag that. They’re _our_ family! What if we could—”

“Because that mind-erasing trick of Booster Gold’s does not always work,” Damian said. His voice was quiet, and yet just firm enough that he drowned out his partner’s protests. Terry reared back, and looked up at him with an expression that warred between confusion and indignation. He ignored it, and continued. “We cannot risk details of the future slipping past the effects of the robot’s algorithms. We have already revealed far too much. Anything more, and we could jeopardize the timestream itself.”

“But, _D—”_

“How would you like to never have been born?” Damian asked him carefully. “To never have met Dana Tan? Or Melanie Walker, for that matter? To never have stumbled on Bruce Wayne’s Batcave and become Batman? To never have found out who you are? Because all of that could happen if we were to tell them anything.”

McGinnis was watching him with a look of horror, so Damian resumed walking. They were close to the circus tent now, and he could already see a few members of his family nearby. Brown was bent in half over the boardwalk railing. She was making miserable retching sounds as Todd rubbed her back sympathetically. Drake and his own younger self were marching through the crowd with twin clouds of pink cotton candy clutched in their hands. He could also see Grayson and Delphi stepping towards the tent, hand in hand. Delphi’s face was turned up towards Grayson, who leaned down to plant a quick kiss on her lips.

Damian couldn’t help the wistful smile that twisted across his mouth. His family truly had no idea what was coming. But in a way, that was the point of the Mission. He, just like all his family members before him, put on a mask every night, not knowing whether that would be the night a mugger got in a lucky shot, or an assassin’s blade landed true.

His eyes landed on Delphi, and in a fleeting moment of remorse, he was tempted.

But he cleared his throat and shook his head.  “I ask for your trust, McGinnis. Say nothing.”

Terry frowned, but nodded.

“I just hope you know what you’re doing, old man.”


	22. Fun and Fright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no update, I know, but I've been swamped with school, and had another depressive episode. But I'm better now, and have a new fluffy chapter up for you guys just in time for Thanksgiving! Enjoy! :D
> 
> (Fair warning. The first section's got lots of cuddling and implied stuff, but I don't write smut, so don't worry!)

 

“This… _nnn…_ seems too good to be true.”

“Hm?” Barbara was too busy planting kisses over her boyfriend’s throat to pay much attention. Dick hummed appreciatively and pulled her closer, fingers twining over her tailbone. He tipped his chin up as she moved to his jaw, placing one feathery kiss after another. He shivered a little as her hair draped across his shoulders.

“Just…” He grinned. “Last night was _amazing._ And this morning…”

Barbara traced his bottom lip with her thumb and smirked. “Yeah?”

Dick’s grin never faltered. “Yeah,” he said breathlessly. “You are—”

She cut him off, lips closing over his tenderly. She reached up to cradle his jaw in her hand as she opened her mouth, pulling away just long enough to breathe, “So what’s wrong?”

He pulled her back in with a soft breath through his nose. His hands trailed lower, and between the kisses he planted on her lips, he panted, “Just…waiting for one of them to…burst in with a missing limb…or something.”

Barbara pulled away softly, letting her last kiss linger on his lips. She stared into his cerulean irises and smiled. “You worry too much, baby.”

She rolled off of his stomach, and felt the softness of the sheets press against her bare back as she settled under the crook of his arm. Her head rested in the crook of his shoulder and she let out a satisfied hum. Dick pulled her in carefully, letting his arm drape across her stomach. Under the covers, she could feel his fingers tracing careful circles over her belly button.

“I love you,” he whispered. Barbara could hear the smile in his hoarse morning voice.

She nestled into the cuddle with a pursed smile. “Heh. You too, Wingnut.”

His gentle fingers continued to caress her skin. There was something unspoken in the air between them, and she could almost hear the gears in his mind shift and turn as he silently considered how to ask.

When he finally did, Barbara could feel the rumble in his chest against her cheek.

“I’ve been worrying about you, Babs. A lot.” A beat of hesitation, then he added softly, “Are you okay? Really?”

Barbara kneaded the inside of her cheek between her teeth. She was unable to stop her thoughts from flying back to Nanda Parbat and the feel of hot blood soaking her hand as she plunged her blade into Shiva’s chest. Almost like a dance, her mind flitted to a Talon’s mask, with its cold, staring amber eyes.

The fingers on her stomach stilled. “Babs?”

She started. “Sorry. Just…thinking.”

His arm tightened around her, holding her fast. It was hard for Barbara to think of a safer place than in Dick Grayson’s arms, but she still felt the sick needling of anxiety sputter in her stomach whenever she thought of just biting the bullet and _telling him._ Everything.

“I know.” Dick gave a soft puff of laughter. “You’ve been doing a lot of that, lately. But you know you can tell me anything that’s going on in that big brain of yours, right?”

Barbara started to grin in spite of herself, but bit her lip. “I just…”

She trailed off, so Dick shrugged his shoulders a little and said, “If you don’t want to, then I respect that. Just…” He reached up with the hand that had been caressing her stomach, and cupped her jaw gently as he turned on his side to face her. Now they lay face to face, and Barbara could see worry and resignation warring on his features.

The battle seemed to last a few seconds before resignation won out. He smiled softly, eyelids drooping a little as his thumb brushed against her cheekbone. “Just…know that I’m here for you, Babs.”

Her fingers curled around his wrist as she frowned. “Dick.”

“Mm?”

The feel of his finger stroking across her face was almost hypnotic. Barbara leaned into the touch, letting her eyes flutter closed. Her other hand slid up and found the spot on Dick’s chest just above his heart, and she could feel every steady palpitation beat against her fingertips.

“I want to tell you,” she breathed. Her voice was quiet, even to her own ears, but she could tell Dick had heard. He stayed quiet, watching her carefully. She could see his gaze twitch back and forth as he studied her face. Barbara watched the blue of his eyes, lit up by the filtered morning light that streamed through the curtains and wondered why they hadn’t been stained green by the Pit. Not that she could bring herself to complain. “I just…don’t know how.”

“Can I guess?”

It was barely a whisper, but it still caught her off guard. Dick’s gaze latched onto hers and she saw the corner of his mouth twitch up slightly.

After a heartbeat of hesitation, she nodded.

His thumb continued its soft, methodic caress. “Is it…the job?”

Barbara could feel her heart miss a beat. “What?” she whispered.

“Batwoman. Is it too much?” A concerned line appeared between his dark eyebrows. “Because if it is, I can pick up the slack. Whatever you need.”

“Oh.” She smiled softly, and let her head roll into his hand. Then snickered. “Glory hog.”

“Hey!” Dick’s shoulders shook a little as he laughed. “Okay, okay. For real, then…” His stare was deep and intense as he schooled his expression into something more serious. Then, he deadpanned, “You won the lottery, didn’t you?”

Barbara gasped, then snorted. Of all the things she’d expected him to say… Her hand flew up to her mouth to muffle her laughter, but she couldn’t stop her shaking as the laughs racked her chest.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Dick gasped. He sat up a little in bed, and grasped her shoulders, pulling her upright along with him. He groaned theatrically, “Babe, _how_ could you keep this from me? Do you have any _idea_ the kinds of taxes we’re gonna have to pay, now?”

He looked so scandalized that it sent Barbara into another fit of giggles.

“I—” she choked in a breath. Tears were pricking at the corners of her eyes as her shoulders shook. “I—”

“What is it, woman?” Dick moaned. He shook her dramatically, and her head bobbed with the movement. Her laughter rang through the room, and through her watery eyes, she could see Dick straining to keep his wide grin at bay. “Tell me! I’m begging you!”

“Babe-!” she gasped. “Babe, you don’t understand! I—” Barbara doubled over, and her forehead landed on Dick’s shoulder. “I did this for _us!”_

It was Dick’s turn to howl with laughter.

They clung to each other, shoulders shaking as they gasped for breath. One minute passed, then five. Every time their peals of laughter subsided, one of them would mutter, “ _Taxes!”_ or _“How could you?”_ and they’d lose it all over again.

It was the kind of mindless joke that neither of them would have given more than a brief smile if they’d had any more sleep. As it was, they were both exhausted beyond reason. So strung out from their cases, and vigilante duties that one of them probably could have said something stupid like ‘gobbledygook’ and they’d have both lost their minds.

After an eternity, though, Dick and Barbara sighed as their giggling died off, and they collapsed back into the pillows side by side.

“You, Dick Grayson,” Barbara muttered, grinning, “Are a nutjob. You know that?”

He rolled a little and planted a soft kiss on her temple. “Mm-hm? Didn’t exactly hear you complaining last night—”

A pillow smacked into his face with a soft _thwump._ The whole mattress bounced as he collapsed back onto the bed from the unexpected force, then sat up, blinking. An evil grin stretched up his face.  “Oh, yeah? Well if you wanna start something, sweetheart, I’m game for another round.”

Barbara folded her hands daintily over her chest, and stuck her tongue out at him.

In response, Dick growled, and went for her throat. Barbara tipped her head back with a shaky exhale, eyes rolling up. She supposed she was going to have to opt for another scarf today. The skin around her neck was still tender, but her boyfriend was always just the right amount of rough, and just the right amount of gentle.

A few minutes later, they were laid out next to each other once again. Barbara was curled into Dick’s chest, and she could feel his soft breaths stirring the hair at the top of her head.

“Dick?” she whispered.

He sighed. The sound was contented and soft, and left something warm glowing inside of her. “Yeah, hon?”

“…I lied about Ra’s Al Ghul.”

“Mm-hmm…” he rumbled sleepily. “I know.”

Barbara started. She pulled out of Dick’s embrace and sat up sharply. “What?”

He looked up at her. A few of the longer locks of his hair had fallen over his eyes, and he brushed them away with the back of one hand as he propped himself up a little. “I know you made up the whole ‘owed you a favor’ thing, babe.”

His expression was so calm and loving. Barbara didn’t understand.

“If you knew,” she said softly, frowning, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Dick pulled himself all the way upright. His fingers tucked a bit of her hair behind her ear before he pulled her into his lap. He held her, almost cradling her, and replied gently. “I figured you’d tell me, eventually.”

Barbara could feel her lower lip trembling. “Then—”

“I’ve been talking to Jay. I know what that &*$!*%& made you do.” His fingers laced through her hair, and he pressed his forehead to hers gently. “And I promise. Whatever you need, whatever I can do, to help you feel whole again…just say the word.”

Her eyes welled up, and she huffed, “That’s not…I saved _you_ so that—”

Dick closed the gap between them and kissed her softly once again. It must have been their hundredth kiss since they’d stumbled through the door last night and fallen into bed. But to Barbara, it seemed careful and sweet and gentle enough that it may as well have been their First.

When they finally broke for air, Dick breathed in carefully.

“Thank you for saving my life.” His eyes crinkled at the corners as he gave her a long, loving look. “But the whole point of all this,” he said, waving a finger between them with a secretive smile, “Is that we save _each other._ United front, remember? That works both ways.”

That did not help the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. “&*#, I love you,” she breathed.

Dick pulled her close. “You too.”

They sat in silence, holding each other for a blissful eternity.

The night before had been heavenly. A quick patrol with the family, ending with the satisfying sight of Killer Moth being driven away in an armored truck. The others had been convinced to have a ‘Sleepover Under the Stars’ in the Manor’s extensive backyard. After being supplied with enough pillows and battery-powered heated blankets to supply a small army, the kids had been left to their own devices (under the supervision of Future-Damian Wayne, of course, who was voted least likely to allow any ‘funny business’). Tim and Jason set up a projector that would play a movie on the side of the house, and Steph had provided enough popcorn to deplete their already substantial communal stash.

All in all, the stage had been set for the perfect romantic evening: the Alone Time that Dick and Barbara had been craving for months.

For good measure, Alfred had even locked all the doors for them, though Barbara wouldn’t have been surprised if one or two or all of her siblings managed to pick their way through for a little bit of breakfast.

Wait…

“I think we can both agree,” Dick finally muttered, “that it’s been way too quiet. We should have had _some_ kind of interruption by now…”

Both of them eyed the clock on the bedside table suspiciously. **10:34 a.m.** _was_ obscenely early, but it was also only slightly more difficult to sleep in when you were out in full sunlight. Dick and Barbara both seemed to have the same thought, so Dick swung himself out of bed and padded over to the window. With one hand, he swept aside the curtain and lifted a flap on the blinds to peer through.

An awed whisper broke the silence as he gasped, “Babs, you’re never gonna believe this.”

Barbara wound the blankets around herself like a shawl and staggered over to peek outside.

The kids were raking leaves. _Together._ She spotted Jason with his head thrown back as he let out a hearty laugh that they could hear even from inside the house. Tim and Damian were running after him and Stephanie with handfuls of leaves. A few strays fluttered out of their grasp like confetti and Terry and Older-Damian were on their heels with matching evil smiles.

“They’re…” Barbara’s eyes widened in wonder. “They’re not trying to murder each other.”

A lazy grin stretched up Dick’s face as he let out a low whistle. “Well. Never thought I’d see the day they’d all get along!” He sniffed, and wiping a fake tear away. “I think I’m gonna cry!”

She planted an elbow in his side with a laugh.

“Let’s enjoy it while it lasts. Breakfast?” Barbara suggested.

“Ooh. Yes.” He turned towards the door.

She laughed. “ _Clothes,_ first?”

Dick paused, and spun on his heel, arms waving as he almost tipped over completely. “Heh. Right.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Tim held the leaves in his hand solemnly. “War. It is ever consuming. It pits ally against ally, brother against brother—"

Steph cleared her throat.

“Brother against sister,” Tim amended without missing a beat. He held his handful of leaves out to them pleadingly. “And at the end, what is the point? Where is it written that man must turn on his fellow man? Where is it—”

Damian leapt up from behind him, and slam-dunked him with an armful of crackly fall leaves. Tim went down in a heap. He and Damian both disappeared in the sizable pile they’d all managed to rake together like they’d been swallowed. Considering they’d been working since 8 a.m., it was about the size of a minivan. (Why did the Wayne ancestors insist on so many trees around the Manor, anyway?)

Terry’s face was drawn in confusion as he glanced from Jason, to Stephanie, to Older-Damian, and finally to the shuffling pile between them. “Uh…does Drake always go off like that?”

Stephanie twirled her rake in one hand like a bo staff. She grimaced as it wobbled, since it was unbalanced, but shrugged and said, “Yeah, he only waxes philosophical when he’s sleep-deprived.”

Jason laughed. He was still half-heartedly raking together a clump of brown and orange leaves. They made a dry whispering sound as he worked. “Well, I mean, if we’re getting specific, you just got a taste of Four-Hour Tim.”

Terry raised an eyebrow. “Four-Hour Tim?”

“Mm-hmm.” Steph’s head bobbed in a nod. She waved her hand as she explained, “Jay, Babs and I have this thing down to a _science._ See, with every hour Tim loses of sleep, he gets weirder and weirder. You can _always_ tell—just by how punch-drunk he is—how much sleep he’s gotten.”

“Four-Hour Tim’s really into Shakespearean $#!^,” Jason chimed in.

“Yeah, yeah, and Three-Hour Tim pours ketchup in his coffee and swears like a sailor.” Steph counted off on her fingers, face screwing up in concentration. “Now, _Two-_ Hour Tim’s tricky, ‘cause he’s either really jittery—like picture maniacal laughter and punching himself in the face to quote-on-quote: ‘feel something’—or he’s suuuuper cranky.”

“Not as cranky as One-Hour Tim,” Jason muttered, shifting his leaves to the still-rustling bigger pile. “Totally off-limits for pranking. Kid almost ripped my arm off once when I stuck a thumbtack in his—”

“Hn. Yeah, I remember that one,” Steph interjected. “But what about Half-Hour Tim?”

Jason shuddered, but they didn’t elaborate on that one. Instead, Stephanie went on, her voice a careful, suspenseful whisper. “But the worst one, Terr-Bear? Try the Timmy who hasn’t even seen a pillow in _three days.”_

“Ah, yes,” Older-Damian finally added, a knowing smirk on his face, “The dreaded Negative-Seventy-Two-Hour-Tim. I’m quite familiar.” He glanced over at Terry, and raised an eyebrow. “Do you remember when we had to remodel the Batcave? We told you a grenade had accidentally gone off, but…”

Terry scowled. “Yeah. That was really—” He started, eyes flying open wide, “Wait a second, that was _Drake?”_

Present-Damian’s head popped up from the pile of leaves. He shook a few out of his hair, and declared, “Drake is unresponsive in here, Elder Me. What should I—”

He yelped, and sunk back into the leaves. They closed over his head as he disappeared, and the others could hear muffled screaming inside the pile. Most of it was Tim’s. Who, apparently, wasn’t as ‘unresponsive’ as Damian had guessed.

They watched the shuffling pile in silence for a few more moments, then Stephanie sighed.

“Honestly. One day…” She mimed shooting a gun with a click of her tongue. “Gonna tranq that kid so hard.”

“Damian or Tim?” Terry muttered.

She nodded. “Yup.”

Jason finally stopped working and planted the end of his rake into the dry grass with a sigh. He leaned on the handle and smirked up at the manor. In hindsight, it had been a great idea to have a slumber party outside. Between the heated blankets and the arctic-proof sleeping bags they’d managed to sneak out of the cave, the low temperature hadn’t been an issue in the slightest. The biggest problem had probably been the movie selection. Tim had taken one look at the old DVD in Jason’s hand and said,

“No.”

“Aw, c’mon, Timbo—”

_“No.”_

But they didn’t have their equipment. And Bruce’s old projector from the early 2000’s only took DVDs. So, really, _Bee Movie_ had been their only option.

“You had to grab _that one,”_ Older-Damian had sighed as they all settled in to watch.

“What’s _Bee Movie?”_ Terry had asked, so, so innocently.

“A blight on this world,” his partner only responded, “But the fact that you must ask only renews my hope for your generation, McGinnis.”

There was a chorus of similar complaints, but Jason had ignored the moaning and groaning. He’d watched this with Bruce and Alfred one night. He’d been down with the flu, and couldn’t make it out on patrol. Dick and Babs had gone, but Bruce, to the surprise of everyone, had decided to stay home with his sick Robin.

Was it a great movie? Well, it depended who you asked. Jason himself had moaned and groaned through all the $#!^^% puns and out-there plot points. But in the end…

“Shut your pie holes and enjoy the pretty colors, kids,” he’d announced, smirking as the others moaned. “Cause we ain’t getting back in that house ‘til the sun comes up.”

Alfred had locked them out. It would have been simple to pick the locks. (Steph had half a dozen picks on her, alone, tucked away in her hair and pockets.) But Jason and Older-Damian had both been adamant: no entry while the oldest two were…well, having their ‘Alone Time’.

When they’d awoken the next morning with grumbling stomachs, they found a note taped to the back door above a small basket of blueberry muffins and scones. It was in Alfred’s scrolly handwriting, and all it said was:

_‘Good morning. If you would feel so inclined, please help yourself to these pastries and then begin work on raking the leaves around the grounds. Once you are finished with this task, I shall be more than happy to unlock the doors for you.’_

Six sets of eyes fastened on the bundle of rakes that had been piled next to the stoop. Stephanie had suggested a mutiny. But it didn’t take long to convince her that Alfred’s wrath was more frightening than any amount of yard work.

Of course, when one locked three teenagers, one preteen, and two young adults (debatable, in Jason’s case) outside for several hours, violence was bound to ensue. They’d only just finished the annual Great Wayne Manor Leaf War—a campaign involving two teams and a game of life-or-death tag involving leaves—thus the dramatic speech from Tim Drake.

Now, Jason looked up at the windows as Tim and Damian exploded from the leaf pile, shouting and chasing each other. He chuckled, and raised an eyebrow as he said, “Been in there a looooong time, huh?”

The others rolled their eyes or chuckled. Tim and Damian paused though, the latter in a headlock as the former tried to press a handful of leaves into his face. They broke apart and joined the rest in looking up at the quiet manor.

It was Damian who finally spoke. “Why is it that Grayson and Delphi require the Manor to themselves? What are they doing?”

“Banging,” Jason said, without missing a beat.

There was an outcry from his siblings and co. Terry smacked a hand over his face, Older-Damian’s eyes widened, and Stephanie and Tim both let out inhuman gasps. Damian only tilted his head slightly, contemplating. “Banging? But I don’t hear anything—”

Steph clapped her hands over the youngest’s ears, mouth open in a wide gasp. Through her teeth, she hissed, “Jay! You can’t just say that kind of thing when there’s kids present!”

“Yeah. I don’t exactly wanna hear that, either, man,” Tim muttered, raising a hand. Older-Damian and Terry both nodded in agreement. After a few seconds, though, a smirk started to twitch at the corners of Red Robin’s mouth.

“ _But,”_ he continued, “I’m willing to bet I know why they’re taking so long…”

Stephanie screeched. Her grip probably tightened, because Damian winced, and batted at her hands in annoyance, muttering under his breath. Jason tipped back his head and laughed. His rake clattered to the ground.

Tim realized how that must’ve sounded and felt heat climb to his face. He reached up to scratch the back of his head as he stuttered, “Um, actually…well, I meant…do you guys know about the…’you know what’?”

There was a look of evil glee on Jason’s face, and Tim found himself wishing there was a ‘backspace’ for verbal conversation. “’Course we do, Timbo. You see, when two people love each other _very much—”_

“Children!” Steph barked. “Are! Present!”

“Ow! You’re crushing me, Brown! Release me at once before I break both of your arms!”

Terry looked up at Older-Damian, who was watching the scene with a bemused smirk. “Um…”

Older-Damian waved a hand. “Just enjoy the show, McGinnis,” he whispered.

“That’s _not what I meant!”_ Tim shouted, throwing his arms out to the sides. “I’m talking about the ring!”

That instantly shut everyone up. They all stared at Tim in open shock, eyes wide and jaws slack. (Except, of course, for Older-Damian, whose smirk had only widened.) For a while no one moved, and no one said a word. The only sound was the soft whisper of the breeze stirring a few of the leaves at their feet, and the purring sound of a car’s motor somewhere in the distance.

Jason wet his lips, and said, slowly, “Ring. Like…’one ring to rule them all’?”

Tim gaped, not making the connection at first. “No? Like, the shiny one I found in Dick’s belt?”

A slow smile was building on Stephanie’s face. Her sparkling eyes were gradually getting rounder and rounder.

Even Damian—who had managed to tear himself out of Steph’s death-grip—was watching Tim with a look of suspicious confusion.

Terry gasped suddenly, “Ohhhh! So _this_ is when—” He was cut off abruptly by a well-placed elbow to the ribs, courtesy of his larger partner.

Then it hit him. Tim felt an unexpected surge of excitement surge in his chest. “Hold on a second,” he said, grinning slowly, “Does this mean I figured something out before the rest of you did?”

Jason scowled. “Like it’s the first time you—?”

“Because I think I did!” Tim punched a fist in the air. “Oh, man! That’s totally what they’re up to in there, isn’t it?”

Stephanie clapped both hands over her mouth and bounced on the balls of her feet excitedly. A high-pitched squeal leaked bubbled out of her. “Oh. My. Gosh. It’s finally happening! Omigoshomigoshomigosh!”

“What?” Damian demanded, frowning as he glanced form sibling to sibling. Todd’s shoulders and face went slack as he gaped up at the windows. The McGinnis boy and Older-him were sharing a knowing-look, Drake was preening, and Brown was making several dying-kitten noises. “What is going on?”

A dumbfounded smile twitched on one corner of Jason’s mouth. “Huh. Well I’ll be a son of a—”

“I _knew it!”_ Steph shrieked, jumping up and down. “ _Ahahaha!_ ”

“Five bucks says Babs laughs in his face!” Jason chuckled.

Tim rolled his eyes. “She wouldn’t do that.”

Stephanie stopped bouncing and waved her fingers in the air. Her voice was feathery light as she said, “I’m thinking a June wedding. That work with everybody? We can do it all up in blues and greens…maybe a dash of coral in there, _ooh,_ that’d be so _cute!”_

“I don’t understand.” Damian turned to Older-him with a frown. “What are they talking about?”

Older-Damian crouched down, taking a knee. At that height, he was still considerably taller than his younger self, but it was closer to eye level than they’d been so far. He reached out and put a large hand on Damian’s shoulder, and said warmly, “Grayson and Delphi have loved each other for years. So now, Grayson is going to ask her to marry him.”

Damian’s eyes widened, then blinked. He glanced over one shoulder at the Manor, then back to his future self. “Truly?”

Older-Damian nodded. “Indeed.”

That earned a delighted smile from the youngest Bat. There was a time that would have caused frightened screams from the others, (“Oh &*# what _is_ that?” “He’s smiling! The end is _nigh!”_ ) but they were too busy planning their older siblings’ wedding.

“Who’s going to take care of the flowers?” Tim mused.

“I call flower girl!” Steph said quickly, throwing a hand up in the air.

Jason squealed. _“Nuh-_ uh!”

“Babe, I love you, but you’ll have to pry the basket from my _cold dead fingertips.”_

“Are you making a death joke?” Jason gasped and clapped a hand over his chest. “I find that offensive!”

“Cold. Dead. _Fingertips!”_

“Shouldn’t we take the Birds into account?” Tim interjected. “They’re gonna want in on this.”

“Yeah, right. The Birds can just go—"

The sound of popping gravel made everyone stop and whirl around. The unmistakable sound of a car rolling to a stop in front of the Manor was something they all recognized from years of listening to Alfred’s comings and goings. But the tires crunching in the front yard made a different sound than the limo or the minivan.

Jason flew to the side of the manor, dropping into a crouch. With the wave of a hand, the others followed, falling into line behind him as they all crept towards the corner of the house. When Jason managed to peak around the brick, he let out a soft curse and drew back quickly.

“What is it?” Tim hissed.

Jason’s glower was venomous as he spat, “Friggin’ Vulture Lady.”

The rest of the Bats matched his expression.

“What’s the game plan?” Stephanie whispered. Her eyes were narrowed in solemn determination, like she would’ve been just fine if the plan involved setting the Vulture Lady’s car on fire.

“I say we slash her tires,” Tim suggested.

“No.” Jason sounded mournful. “Fun as that would be, it’d just _keep her from leaving.”_

The sound of someone knocking on the front door sent them all scurrying back around the corner. Jason scooped up a few of the rakes that had been discarded on the grass and flung them at the closest siblings.

“Alright, act natural.” His voice was lowered, but still carried a commanding edge. “Alf’s not gonna answer the door for anybody, remember? So she’s gonna come snooping this way.”

The others nodded. They gripped their rakes with renewed determination and set back to work.

“And remember,” Jason added. “In the event of capture, you can use your rake to—”

A mop of immaculately curled red hair popped out around the corner of the house. Vale’s vulture-like gaze settled on the group of Bats, and they watched in horror as a smug smile climbed up her face. Without a word, she picked her way over the small scattered piles of leaves and over to the Waynes, brandishing a notepad like a broadsword.

“Aha!” she crowed. “I knew someone was home!”

Tim sighed heavily. “Good morning, Vicki. How can we help you this time?”

Vale’s smile was demonic. Her gaze flickered between Older-Damian and Terry curiously, then landed on Jason, and her eyes practically lit up.

“Well, hello.” She extended a manicured hand towards the second Bat-brother. His eyes darted towards Tim, pleading silently for rescue, but Vale continued, “Eduardo, correct? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

The others were watching Jason expectantly. For a tense minute or three, no one moved a muscle. Even their breathing seemed to have stopped. But then, with an audible gulp, Jason took Vicki’s hand and shook it firmly.

“’Sup,” he replied, voice strained. “Nice to meet you.”

Vale’s eyes flew open wide. “Hm. Your accent is very good, Mr…?”

Jason stiffened, inhaling sharply through his nose. The others winced, and each took a half-step back.

“Haywood.” He dropped Vale’s hand, and his eyes narrowed. “And, yeah. I’ve got an _American_ accent. ‘Cause I was _born here.”_

At that, it was Vicki’s turn to gape. “O-of course. I was just—”

“Did you assume,” Jason pressed, “That I’d have an accent just because my name’s Eduardo? Or maybe because I do maintenance for Mr. Wayne?”

He stepped closer, towering above the dreaded reporter, and standing so close that Vicki Vale had to tip her head back just to make eye contact. The others watched her throat bob a little as she swallowed.

“’Cause lemme tell you, lady. That’s some racist &*%%$#!^ that I don’t put up with. Especially on the clock.” He tipped his chin down, and his expression was dark enough to make Vale visibly shiver. “So tell you what. Get the #$%% off the property before I call the police.”

The others nodded. Stephanie and Tim crossed their arms over their chests with twin scowls. Vale staggered back, sputtering, “I don’t—how can—you can’t just talk to me like that!”

“Sure he can,” Tim said with a shrug. “You’re trespassing, and we don’t want you here. Sorry to be blunt—”

“—but it’s true,” Steph interjected.

Vale whirled on her. “And who are you, exactly? And you?” She jabbed a finger up at Older-Damian and Terry with an almost-crazed look in her eye. “Who _are_ all you people?”

Tim thought fast, then tutted, shaking his head. He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and moved to stand next to Damian. “They work for us? Would’ve thought that’d be obvious.”

Damian nodded. He tried his best to mirror Tim’s pose, but flicked his eyes nervously over to the other Bats. “Indeed. We are helping them with the yardwork. Oh, and this is Terrence. He prepares our food.”

When he noticed that all eyes were on him, Terry started, and gave a little wave. “Uh. Yeah. Food prep. That’s me.”

“Makes a mean frittata,” Tim added. Terry shot him a glance that could only be interpreted as _‘What the %^*#, man?’._ Tim could only shrug,

“And that is Stephanie. She’s our maid.”

Steph’s eyes narrowed towards her little brother in warning, but she pasted on a bright grin. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you—Ms. Vale, was it?—but…well.”

Vale’s mouth twisted. She jerked her chin up towards Future-Damian, who was watching her with a bored expression. “And this guy?”

“This is D—ennis. Dennis.” Tim ignored the wide-eyed glare from Older-Damian and plowed on. “He’s our new bodyguard. Bruce hired him to look after us, since his trip’s going to last a little longer than he’d thought.”

“Ah, yes, the infamous Amazon expedition,” Vale said with a roll of her eyes. “Though I can see why you’d need a bodyguard, after that whole mess with the Triple B Killer. Speaking of which, would you care to give a statement on your older brother’s miraculous return?”

She whipped open her notepad eagerly. But Tim only scowled. “We would not.”

“Hn. Just as well.” With a dramatic sigh, she stuffed the notepad into the messenger bag that hung at her hip. Then, crossing her arms over her chest, she regarded them each with a look of cool calculation. It was enough to send prickles of uneasiness shivering over the back of Tim’s neck. “I’ve got more… _interesting_ stories to cover, as of late.”

“Is that right?” Tim asked dryly.

“It is indeed, Timothy.” Vale was smirking now, and Tim decided he liked that even less than the cold stare. “Now that your big bro’s back, well, he’s been nothing but tabloid fodder! I’ve enjoyed writing _several_ pieces about the various exploits of Richard Grayson.”

At that, she pulled out a glossy magazine and shoved it towards Tim. He took it with a glower, rolled it up, and stuck in into his back pocket without further comment.

“Great, great,” Jason said, “Good to know D—erm, Mr. Grayson’s keeping things interesting.” He sidestepped to stand in front of Tim, shielding him from the piercing gaze of the nosy reporter. “Now. How about you get the #$%% off these grounds?”

Vale’s eyes flicked up to Jason. Her smirk only widened. “Yes, well. Mr. Hernandez…are you familiar with a boy named Jason Todd?”

All of them watched Jason carefully. But their older brother only squared his shoulders and spoke through his teeth.

“Never met the kid. Died before I came to work here. And it’s _Haywood.”_ Jason’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Anyone who knew him would have known that this was the time to back off, and run far, far away. Even Vicki seemed to shrink a little bit under the Red Hood’s signature BatGlare.

“Now,” Jason said, voice low and eerily calm, “Just so we’re clear. _Sal de nuestra propiedad y deja a mi familia en paz, bruja racista o de lo contrario llamaré al perro monstruo de mi hermano.”_

Vale only blinked, mouth falling open slightly. But the rest of the Bats understood perfectly. (Except for Terry, who’d failed freshman Spanish and never picked it up again.) Damian smirked, and stuck two fingers into his mouth.

A shrill whistle pierced their ears, and all eyes turned towards the corner of the house, where a leggy dog the size of a small house was loping over. Titus’ tongue lolled out as he panted. With a huff, he sat himself down by Damian’s side, so that Vicki could see clearly with her steadily widening eyes that the dog was almost as tall as the pre-teen. Damian scratched at the hound’s blue-gray ears with a sneer, and said, “Titus? On my mark.”

On cue, a low rumble thrummed in the Great Dane’s throat, and he stood with his head lowered and glistening teeth bared.

Vale let out a squeak and took five hurried hops backward. Then stopped. “Y-you’re not going to sic your dog on me!”

“Titus?” Damian’s sneer turned into something evil and smug. “Ready?”

Titus chuffed. His lip curled up so that they could see his sharp white teeth all the more clearly.

Vale’s face drained of color. “I—I don’t—”

“ _Onward!”_

Titus shot forward, snarling like a demon from #$%%. The reporter let out an equally unholy shriek, turned, and booked it across the lawn. One high heeled shoe was lodged in the grass, sticking up like a lawn decoration, but Vale abandoned it completely. She waved her hands at her driver, shrieking over the Great Dane’s throaty barking.

The driver gunned the engine. Titus’s teeth snagged the hem of Vale’s skirt, and she screeched. The reporter threw open the door and dove into the car, which was already starting to roll away. None of the Bats missed the glorious ripping sound that split the air over the roar of the engine and the attacking hound. And when the sedan had sped through the Manor’s gates, the victorious Great Dane plopped down on his haunches with a mighty puff of a sigh.

All of them sprinted over to the dog, but it was Damian who dared to reach towards Titus’s mouth. He pulled away a scrap of navy blue fabric, and held it up like a victory flag. This earned a chorus of cheers and laughter from the rest of the Waynes.

“I love that dog,” Terry announced, grinning.

“Which is truly saying something,” Older-Damian said with a smirk, “Since McGinnis usually has a strong aversion towards Great Danes.”

Terry pouted. “Not Great Danes, man. Just that devil-spawn you and B—the others call a dog.”

“Steph?” Tim asked. His grin was a little dazed as he stared at the car that was growing smaller and smaller in the distance. “Tell me you—”

There was a small beep to his right. Steph lowered her phone reverently. “Ee-yup. Recorded for posterity.”

Jason was glowering in the direction Vale had driven, looking absolutely stormy. The others shot him side glances, but didn’t say anything. So, he filled the uneasy silence.

“If there’s one thing I can’t stand—” he growled under his breath. Then sighed, and looked up at Tim. “What’s the tabloid say?”

Tim had almost forgotten about the rolled-up magazine in his back pocket. He pulled it out, flipping it open so that the front cover was on full display. When everyone saw it, jaws dropped and eyes shot open wide to scan over the headline and the fully colorized photo.

It was Steph who finally found her voice. Her fingers dug through her hair as she said, “Alrighty, then. Enough’s enough. Let’s bust in and get to the bottom of this.” She pulled a thin silver pick from her blonde locks and scowled.

“I can’t _wait_ to hear Dick explain this one.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Picking the front door’s lock was laughably easy. Tim would have thought that after so many years of dealing with snooping wards, Bruce would have at least _tried_ to find better security for the Manor. According to Alfred, the trend of disregarding doors and privacy had started with Dick, and every Batkid after him had taken up the fine art of lock-picking.

The tumblers stood no chance against Steph’s delicate touch.

They threw the front door open and marched inside. The heavy smell of something cooking permeated the air of the hallway that led to the kitchen, and all six of their stomachs growled pointedly. (The scones Alfred had left them were a distant memory.)

When they got to the kitchen, they were greeted by the sight of their older siblings cooking breakfast together. There were ingredients scattered over the countertops, along with an empty egg carton and various kitchen utensils. Dick was at the stove, stirring yellow yolks in a frying pan with a rubber spatula. Babs’s arms were wrapped around his chest. She was on tiptoes, chin balanced on his shoulder as she watched him work.

He turned his face slightly towards hers. “Smell good?” he asked softly.

A smile curled up their big sister’s lips. “Mmm.”

Jason cleared his throat, and both of them looked up sharply. Barbara’s eyes narrowed, then sprung open wide as she glanced briefly at the clock hanging on the wall.

“Ha!” she crowed, elbowing her boyfriend lightly in the side. “They didn’t last ‘til noon. _You_ owe me ten bucks, Hunk Wonder.”

Dick smirked, laying a quick peck on her cheek. Then, he straightened, and regarded his siblings with a look of open confusion. Which was well deserved, since they were all glaring at him heatedly. (Except for the time travelers. Older-Damian had a look of calm curiosity on his face, like he was watching a cable show, and was waiting to see how the story played out. Terry just kept squinting in confusion.)

“Is…everything alright, you guys?” Dick asked carefully.

“You tell us,” Steph snipped. Her hand darted out, and she caught the tabloid out of Tim’s fingers. The paper snapped as she held it up for their older siblings to see. “Care to explain this, big bro?”

When Tim had showed them the cover of the magazine, they’d been shocked. It was a full-page, full-color photo of Dick, and…some lady…locked in a passionate kiss. The caption underneath was in bold, blocky yellow letters.

**BILLIONAIRE BOY’S SEXY NEW SIDEPIECE?**

Tim frowned up at them. “What. The. #$%%?”

Jason and Damian were both glaring at Dick, while Steph continued to brandish the tabloid like a deadly weapon. Terry’s eyes narrowed slightly. Older-Damian crossed his arms, but his expression never changed. Dick and Barbara both stepped closer to squint at the magazine cover.

Tim expected an explosion. He was watching Barbara’s face carefully, and he knew that the others were doing the same.

But instead, Barbara shared a glance with Dick. Then they tipped their heads back and started…laughing?

“Uh…” Jason squinted, cocking his head to the side.

Barbara gasped, doubling over as her shoulders shook. She threw up a hand, catching Dick’s shoulder for support. “Oh…oh my…oh my gosh, look at your…look at your face!”

Dick had a hand over his mouth as he stared at the photo through squinted eyes. His hearty laugh shook his whole frame, but he opted to lean on the counter instead of his smaller girlfriend to keep himself upright.

“V-Vale?” he asked, between gasps for breath.

“Um. Yeah.” The hand holding the magazine lowered, and Steph raised an eyebrow. “You guys are taking this…well…”

“You look like that time…!” Barbara cried. “That time you set…you set your boots on…on fi— _ahahaha!”_ She tossed her head back, and the rest of her sentence was lost in a wild bout of laughter.

Dick managed to calm down enough to talk. He huffed, bit his lip, still grinning, then told them, “Yeah. Not an issue, guys. Total misunderstanding.”

Barbara was still giggling, but she nodded, chin bobbing lightly. “I mean, look at his face, you guys. Like, _really.”_

Steph held the photo up for them all to see. They crowded around her shoulders, necks craning to see the expression on their older brother’s half-hidden face. Now that they knew to look for it, they could see that Dick’s eyes were blown open wide in terror or disbelief. His hands were on the woman’s shoulders, but not in an intimate way. More of a ‘ _get the %^$# off me’_ sort of way.

“Nice to know,” Dick said dryly, “That the Vulture Lady’s still keeping tabs.”

Barbara wiped the tears from her eyes with a sigh.

“So…” Jason waved a finger between Dick and Barbara, pointing at each of them in turn. His eyes were still narrowed suspiciously. “ _You_ aren’t cheating on Babs with this other chick…and _you_ know about the whole thing?”

They both nodded.

The other Bats visibly relaxed. Then, it was Steph’s turn to let out a laugh.

“Well, in that case!” She turned towards her oldest brother expectantly. Her eyes flicked down towards Barbara’s left hand, but it was conveniently hidden behind Dick’s shoulder. “Do you have anything to tell us?” she asked, enunciating each word.

Barbara frowned a little, cocking her head in confusion. “What?”

“You know,” Tim supplied, rolling a hand. He shot Dick a pointed look. “ _Why you guys took so long this morning?”_

Dick was smart; he seemed to catch on immediately. Tim watched him go completely still, face draining of any and all color. Suddenly, his smile looked a lot more plastic than before.

“I…” He swallowed. “Uh…”

One of Barbara’s eyebrows crept up towards her hairline. “Huh. Well, no offense, guys, but I don’t really think it’s any of your business…”

“Right!” Dick agreed, a little too loudly. Then, he wrinkled his nose. “Is something burning?”

They all paused, sniffing. An acrid aroma hung in the air. Barbara’s eyes shot open wide, and she whirled around.

“Oh, $#!^, the _eggs!”_

The eggs had blackened, curling in on themselves. Thin wisps of smoke were swirling up above the ruined dish. Tim could see a few glowing flames licking up over the edge of the pan.

Wayne Manor’s kitchen used to have a fire alarm. But somewhere in between new kid number three and five, Alfred had ripped it out of the ceiling in defeat. The general consensus became: if there was a fire in the kitchen, you’d _know_ there was a fire in the kitchen.

So, luckily, there was no screeching siren to let them know that Dick and Barbara’s breakfast had met its tragic end. Not unless you counted Barbara, at least.

She rushed forward, digging in one of the cupboards. “Dick, grab the baking soda!”

The flames were getting bigger, now. A foot and a half tall at least. Dick flew to the pantry. Terry ran to the sink, and turned on the tap. As one, everyone shouted,

“ _No water!”_

Somewhere between kid two and four, someone had tried that. But pouring water on a grease fire had…unexpected results. Needless to say, that had been the year they remodeled the kitchen, and Bruce swore on his own cowl that Tim would never be allowed near a stove again.

Terry turned off the sink, and stepped away with his hands in the air.

Dick tossed a handful of white powder on the flames, and Barbara slammed the lid down over the pan. After they moved it off the burner, and switched off the stove, the two oldest Bats shared a look, and smiled softly at one another. Dick leaned in, and Barbara met his lips tenderly.

Jason groaned. “Are you _seriously—?”_

Stephanie shushed him with a finger over his lips. “Hush. Don’t ruin the moment.”

“ _What_ moment? All they did was put out a f—”

“ _Shh!”_

“Sorry about breakfast,” Dick muttered, brushing a lock of red hair out of Barbara’s face. She sighed, and leaned into the touch.

“It’s fine, Wingnut.” She smirked. “I’m sure you’ll find some way to make it up to me.”

Their fond glances seemed to last an eternity before they snapped out of it, and glanced over at their audience. Then, they straightened, cleared their throats, and set to work cleaning up their ruined meal.

“Well?” Steph asked, pleadingly.

Dick shot her a sharp glance that clearly meant, ‘ _Not now’,_ and put a hand on Barbara’s back.

“Well, what?” Barbara asked over her shoulder.

Dick chuckled lightly. “You’re right, Steph, we should _totally_ start getting ready for patrol.”

“That’s not what I—It’s _daytime—!_ ”

“Exactly!” Dick’s smile was slightly panicked. “We just need to—”

Alfred stepped into the room, and Dick cut off sharply. Everyone turned to the old butler, who was clutching a handheld phone tight to his chest. His face was drawn and pale, and as he extended the hand holding the phone to Dick, his voice quavered.

“It’s the Commissioner, Master Dick.”

Dick took the phone, eyebrows raised. Barbara mirrored his expression.

“He says it’s him,” Alfred added solemnly. “The Joker.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

No one smiled when they pulled on their uniforms. Snapped on their capes, cowls and masks. Slid on their gloves and boots. Buckled their utility belts.

Dressing for patrol was usually louder. Banter and laughter echoed off the walls and high ceiling of the Cave. The Batkids exchanged jokes and friendly jabs while they put on their war paint and readied for battle. One sibling usually ended up with half their gear missing, and had to hunt for it through the Cave while the others laughed and goaded them on. (Tim had found his boots in the mouth of the giant dinosaur once, so he was never amused by the game.) Light pecks on the cheeks or the lips were exchanged between significant others, and slaps on the back were distributed to smaller siblings.

It was friendly, it was excited, it was how they all psyched themselves up for another dangerous night out on the Gotham City streets.

But no one laughed now.

Tim shot a glance towards Jason, who was wrist-deep in his helmet, tweaking the settings with a screwdriver he’d pulled from his belt. His expression was dark and stormy, brows so low and tight in a glare that Tim could barely see his eyes. Steph was standing next to him. She checked over her gauntlets carefully to be sure that the taser probes were in working order. Her eyes kept flicking over to her boyfriend warily.

Nightshade and Terry stood a few feet apart from the rest of the Bats. Terry was whispering angrily as his mentor/partner shook his head and twisted his escrima sticks thoughtfully.

Damian was sitting on the locker room bench a few feet away from them. He was already dressed, but stared at the compartment where his uniform was typically stored. He didn’t blink or look away for several minutes.

Tim was busy checking that his armor was up to standard. That the settings and 360-degree cameras in his cowl were properly calibrated. He also did a quick sweep over his weapons, making sure that he had enough birdarangs and pellets to see him through whatever the Clown Prince of Crime had in store.

Dick was on the edge of the room. The Batman armored suit required mechanical assistance to suit up in. It was something their older brother had complained about endlessly for the first few weeks of wearing the uniform. (“It’s like I’m a walking hunk of lead!” “Why did he need the cape? It’s like I’m wearing a &*#% _circus tent_ on my back!”) But he didn’t complain now. The only sound that could be heard from his position (or the entire room, come to think of it) was the small whirring of the mechanical arms twisting the screws and snapping the plates of armor into place.

And Barbara…

She was leaned against the lockers, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her fingers were wrapped around her armored biceps, and if it weren’t for the gloves, Tim was sure he’d be able to see white knuckles. Her jaw was clenched hard. Her eyes weren’t visible behind the Batwoman mask, but Tim could feel their heated intensity from across the room.

He made a mental note to keep his distance tonight.

The robotic arms lowered, and Dick stepped off the platform. He marched across the locker room, cape swirling around his ankles, and clenched his fists. As he tipped his chin up, all Bats in the room stopped to listen to their leader.

“Red Robin, Batgirl,” he said, voice low and authoritative. “Get your cycles ready. You’re ground support. Red Hood, Robin, Nightshade, future-Batman and I will take the Batmobile.” He took several sweeping, determined steps towards the exit. “Stay sharp, tonight. This may be personal, but we’re doing this by the book. Don’t let him get under your skin, and remember what symbol you’re fighting with.”

He tapped the bat on his chest meaningfully.

No one missed the obvious omission. Barbara straightened, pushing off the lockers with a sharp frown.

“What about me?”

Dick paused mid-step. He frowned back at her. Squared his shoulders and said, shortly,

“You’re staying back.”

The white eyes of her mask widened. _“Excuse_ me?”

Dick sighed, and turned to face his girlfriend and partner. There was something resigned and unwavering in the set of his jaw. It reminded Tim a little of the way Bruce got sometimes, when he wasn’t willing to budge an inch for anything.

“Babs,” he said softly. “I need you to stay here.”

She threw her arms out to the sides. “Why? I need to go.”

“Because—”

“ _Because,”_ she echoed, marching up to him. They stood inches apart now, breastplate to chestplate, and Barbara tipped her head back slightly to look him in the eye. “I’ve got _just_ as much a stake in this as the rest of you do,” she said, voice deathly quiet. “If not more.”

“Your shoulder’s still hurt.”

“To #$%% with my _shoulder!”_

If anything, Dick’s frown deepened. “Babs. You’re hurt. I can’t ask you to go and—”

Barbara threw up her hands. “Y _ou’re_ not asking me to do anything! It’s _him,_ Dick. I need to be there!”

Dick’s expression didn’t waver in the slightest. “It’s because it’s him that I need you to stay back.”

“Give me an _answer,_ &#$% it,” she said through her teeth. “Why? Is it because you don’t think I can handle it? That I’ll have a breakdown in the middle of a firefight? Or,” Barbara’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Do you not trust me to handle this _our_ way because it’s _him?”_

“ _How_ could you think I don’t trust you?” I—”

“Then tell me! Why can’t—”

Dick seized her shoulders in his gloved hands. “I don’t trust _myself_ , Babs!”

The others watched, wide eyed and silent.

Dick’s voice lowered below the shout he’d just let out, and his shoulders dropped. “You…you’re the one he always goes for, Barbara. He’s going to say something, do something, and…if he lays a finger on you, how can I—? If he even _looks_ at you, I can’t trust myself not to—”

He cut off.

Barbara’s mouth fell opened, stunned. “Dick—”

“I… Listen, I already called Helena,” he said, dropping his hands. He turned to go, and Barbara took a step to follow him, before stopping short. “She’ll be here soon.”

Barbara let out an indignant growl. “You called me a _babysitter?”_ she seethed.

“I called you a friend,” Dick shot back, “Who, by the way, knows just as well as I do why you can’t be on this mission. Guys? Let’s head out.”

The rest of the Bats stood, ready to follow. Nightshade sheathed his escrima sticks in the holsters on his back. Tim and Steph collapsed their staffs and Red Hood, Robin and Terry made final adjustments on their uniforms. They cast sympathetic and wary glances at their older sister as they filed out of the room. Barbara was almost shaking with rage.

“You can’t—can’t just—w-why are you—?” Her hands were twitching at her sides. She could feel her heart banging against her ribs, and scarlet colored her vision.

Dick could only frown sadly back at her. He reached out, brushed his cold, metal-wrapped fingers against her cheek, and turned to leave.

“I love you,” he whispered. “That’s why I’m doing this.”

In her heart, she knew he was right. Dick was there every night to watch her shake and scream in her sleep. He knew about her dreams. Her _nightmares._

And he knew, just like she did, that if she stood face to face with that monster…heard his laugh…saw that sneering smile…

No.

Barbara didn’t believe her partner. Sure, she believed he was worried about his own self-control. But…she knew Dick had his doubts about _her_ self-control. He’d seen her brutal side, and he _must_ have seen the way she’d been slipping these last few weeks…

She caught his arm, stopping him just before he could leave the room.

“You’d better come back to me, Dick Grayson,” she said, turning her face away as he tried to meet her eyes. “I don’t…I don’t agree with you on this. At all. ...I’ll stay. But only because…”

He waited for her to finish. And when she didn’t, he nodded. “I know.”

He leaned in, kissed her gently, then swept out of the room.

Barbara glowered. Under her breath, she added, “But I’ll be &^#$*& if I just sit here and wring my hands like some handkerchief-waving damsel.”

She stalked out of the room just in time to hear the roar of the engines and see the others streak out of the Cave as a unit. One that she wished she could join. But she turned to the massive, empty monitor, and set her jaw.

“Well, darling,” she sniped in the direction of the Batcomputer, “Looks like we’ve got a long, romantic afternoon ahead of u—”

Upstairs, the doorbell rang. Bruce had set systems up years ago so that he could tell what was happening in the Manor, even from the Cave. There was a notification alarm for the garage doors, the front door, and even the kitchen timer. (It was always important to keep tabs when Alfred was making cookies.)

Barbara felt alarms going off in her own head. Either Helena had made excellent time…

She dashed towards the elevator, one razor batarang already in hand.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“So…are we gonna talk about the elephant in the Batmobile?”

Jason’s voice cut through the silence in the car like a serrated knife. Dick could feel everyone’s heads turn towards him. Even Tim and Steph, who were flanking the Batmobile on their cycles. His fingers curled tight around the steering wheel, and the sound of metal grating on metal was almost as loud as his brother’s voice.

“That’s not a nice way to talk about Nightshade,” Dick said dryly. “He’s right here.”

Older-Damian and younger-Damian alike both scowled.

“I think what Todd is referring to,” Robin said, “Is the ring you’ve got in your utility belt.”

Dick felt his jaw tighten along with his fingers. “So you guys all know about that, huh?”

[ _“Ding! Ding! Ding!”_ ] Steph’s voice crackled through the speakers. [ _“So…when’re you gonna ask her?”_ ]

[ _“Today’s probably not good,”_ ] Tim added. [ _“Since you might be sleeping on the couch tonight, Bats.”_ ]

Jason chuckled at that, but there wasn’t much humor behind it.

Dick cocked his head, and turned the Batmobile down another street. They were going under an overpass, now, and what little light had been filtering through the windows flickered out completely. “So. Anyone want to share how you found out?”

[ _“It’s_ us, _B,”_ ] Tim said. Dick could almost hear the shrug in his tone.

Jason nodded. “Yep. Can’t keep secrets in this family, believe me. So. Does Babs know?”

“She doesn’t,” Dick said. Then, under his breath, “At least, I was _pretty sure_ before we started in with this conversation…”

“But…she will?” Robin asked, softly. “You _do_ plan to ask her, correct, Grayson?”

Dick kept his eyes on the road, mindful of the other cars they were streaking past. Red Robin and Batgirl had to weave their way through traffic, struggling to stay on his nine and three. It was always difficult to stay together like this on motor-patrols. But they managed. “Of course, I do. I just…need to find the right moment.”

“Right moment?”

[ _“Right_ moment?”] Tim and Steph both echoed.

“Right.” Dick swallowed hard. “The right moment.”

Jason turned his body in the passenger seat, staring intently at him. Dick kept his gaze straight ahead, ignoring the piercing gaze his brother was shooting him behind the red helmet. After a few moments, he heard the Red Hood scoff.

“Oh my gosh, you guys, he’s _scared.”_

“I’m not scared,” Dick shot back. “I’m just—"

Stephanie’s laugh drowned him out. [ _“Ha. Yee-up. He’s scared.”_ ]

“What?” Terry demanded. He leaned forward, straining to be seen over Nightshade and Robin in the backseat. “Are you worried she’s gonna say ‘no’ or something?”

Dick was silent. He turned the car again, streaking past honking cars and bursting out into the afternoon light. The others picked up on his silence like sharks picking up on a drop of blood. Tim’s voice was incredulous over the speakers.

[ _“Batman…she’s not gonna say ‘no’. You…you_ do _know that. Right?”_ ]

“Spoiler alert!” Terry announced. “They don’t call her ‘Commissioner Grayson’ for nothing!”

[ _“Hey! That’s my line!”_ ]

Nightshade growled something to his partner that Dick didn’t catch, but the teenager just shrugged and turned his head to stare out the window. He raised his hand to wave at the pedestrians, probably blissfully unaware that the tinted windows kept them all hidden.

Dick swallowed. Something unidentifiable was fluttering in his chest. The thought of Babs saying ‘yes’…taking his last name. Would she— “Really?”

Nightshade sighed, but managed to reply, “Yes, Grayson. The two of you make a lovely couple.”

[ _“Uh,_ doi.”] Stephanie snipped. [ _“What else is new?”_ ]

“But seriously,” Jason interjected. “We’re gonna help you figure this out, man.”

[ _“Suh-_ weet! _Operation ‘Get those two idiots together’, anyone?”_ ]

[ _“Too obvious.”_ ] Dick caught sight of Tim shaking his head through the driver’s side window. [ _“Babs’d pick up on it. How ‘bout…Operation—”_ ]

“Operation ‘Grow a Pair’ has a nice ring to it.” Jason snickered, earning a glare from his older brother.

“Guys,” Dick sighed. “What—"

[ _“You didn’t let me finish! What about Operation ‘Dibs’?”_ ] Tim suggested. [ _“You know, because it means ‘to claim something’, and—“_ ]

Damian groaned. “We are well aware of the definition, Drake.”

[ _“And it’s_ also—“] Tim continued pointedly. [ _“A mix of ‘Dick’ and ‘Babs’._ Dibs. _Get it?”_ ]

Everyone was quiet for a few moments. The only sound in the car was the thrumming of the engine and the sounds of the two cycles on either side. That, and the honking and shouting civilians. Dick turned the name over in his mind. He felt a twinge of annoyance that his little siblings had decided to insert themselves into his plans. They weren’t even supposed to know about the proposal until after he’d actually proposed!

But then, he couldn’t help the smile twitching at one corner of his mouth.

“Nice of you guys to help out,” Dick said, “But I think that I’ve got this under cont—”

“How long’ve you had the ring?” Jason cut him off sharply.

The others were watching him expectantly.

“I. Um.” Dick shifted his weight in the seat. Then, under his breath, “How long has it been since Wally and Artemis’s wedding?”

[ _“What.”_ ] Steph deadpanned.

“ _What?”_ everyone else demanded.

“Cool.” Jason turned, pressing his back against the seat as he kicked his boots up on the dash. “I like the sound of ‘Operation Dibs’, Timbo. Let’s go with that. I’m thinkin’ ‘location’ needs to be the first thing we consider, and then we need to figure out ‘ambience’, and then—”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Dick waved a hand. “Who’s the one actually doing the proposing thing, here, Jay?”

“Well, hopefully, _you,_ man.” Jason shrugged. “But you’ve clearly reached a point where you need a little…nudging.”

“ _Nudging?”_ Dick demanded.

“Yeah, nudging.” He could have sworn Jason was smirking under the hood as he crossed his arms behind his head. “So in the meantime, let’s just—”

He cut off. All eyes swiveled to the windshield as the Batmobile pulled to a halt. Through it, the got a full view of the Gotham City Library, and the wreckage that surrounded it. Cars had been set on fire, and there were civilians lying prone on the stairs and pavement. The chiseled white stone and red brick had been spray-painted with dripping purple and green. Large glaring smiles that stretched over the entire front of the building and down the stone stairs. Interspersed between the smiles were long spiky letters spelling out HAHAHAHAHA. Dick didn’t see so much as felt Terry shudder behind him. He felt a shudder of his own crackle up his spine.

Because the artwork was almost exactly like the ones that had been in Bruce’s library when…

The top of the Batmobile slid back with a hiss, and everyone flew out. Red Robin and Batgirl dismounted, tossing their helmets aside. All of them ran towards the building, stopping only to crouch next to the fallen civilians.

Dick paused beside a woman in a torn yellow cardigan laying on her stomach. Her frizzy brown hair was draped over her face, so he couldn’t tell if her eyes were open or closed. His finger went to the spot just behind her jaw, and he waited for his suit’s sensors to detect a—

There. The pulse was faint, but this woman was still alive.

Dick carefully gripped her shoulder, and slowly eased her onto her back.

Then every nerve in his body burst into a chorus of adrenaline.

“Hehe-help me-hehehe,” the woman wheezed. Tears were streaming from her wide, bloodshot eyes. Her teeth were bared in a ghoulish grin. Her lips were cracked and bleeding from being stretched so impossibly wide. Little bursts of manic laughter shook her chest, and Dick lowered her and stepped back, hastily wiping his fingers on his cape.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Batgirl reach out to touch one of the men collapsed on the stairs.

“ _Stop!_ ” he shouted.

The others froze, some of them with hands hovering over victims of their own. At the sight of Dick’s frantic face, they stood slowly.

Tim’s eyes landed on the woman at Dick’s feet, and his face drained of color.

“Oh,” he breathed. “It’s—”

“Joker gas,” Dick snapped. “Rebreathers on, and don’t let it come in contact with your skin. Everyone fan out and check for survivors. Red Robin, call the GCPD and tell them to get a Hazmat team down here.”

They nodded and dispersed.

Dick wandered through the wreckage, tossing extinguisher pellets onto any fires he came across. He couldn’t help but crane his neck to stare at the garish smiles that decorated the library. And he knew he’d made the right call with Barbara. If she’d been here—at a _library,_ no less—and seen the spray paint and the victims scattered all over the ground…

It was intentional. The Joker was trying to mess with their heads. Bring back memories of that night. Dick could feel them banging around in his head, demanding—no, _screaming_ for—attention. He’d long ago shoved those memories into the recesses of his mind, thanks to many long sessions with Black Canary. (The League’s Black Canary, not the Birds’.) And he thought he’d made progress.

But being here, surrounded by so many reminders…

He stopped in front of a teenaged girl. Couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Her black hair sprayed over the pale stone steps, brown eyes staring coldly at the sky, and Dick knew immediately that she was gone. He shuddered away from the stretching grin, and almost turned to leave. But then his eyes caught the flash of white against her dark clothes.

Dick reached out, and eased a folded piece of paper from under the girl’s arm.

It was wrinkled and spattered with flecks of blood. But Dick could make out the spidery scrawl of black on the front of it.

_BATSY_

A chill spread through him that turned his blood to ice. But he swallowed hard and flipped the note open carefully.

_HELLLLLLOO FAKE BATSSSSY!!!_

_IF YOU’RE READING THIS, IT MEANS YOU’VE SEEN YOUR LITTLE PRESENT! THIS TOWN’S BEEN TOO QUIET FOR TOO LONG, AND IT’S TIME UNCLE JOKER CAME BACK TO SHOW YOU BRATSSSSS WHO’S BOSS._

_DON’T WORRY TOO MUCH THOUGH, DICKIE-BIRD! I FOUND SOME NEW FRIENDS, AND THEY TOLD ME TO TELL YOU THAT YOU’RE OFF LIMITS. AND YOUR LITTLE SWEETIE-BOO, TOO._

_FOR NOW._

_BY THE TIME YOU READ THIS, I’LL BE LONG GONE. BUT GIVE MY LOVE TO BABSY. I HAVE A FEELING SHE’S MIIISSSSSEEEEDD ME SO. TELL HER I WANT TO—_

Dick crumpled the note in his fist.

Jason stalked over to his side, trudging through the mess of tangled limbs, rubble, and discarded spray-paint cans. “&*$^*%&,” he muttered darkly. Then, he saw the expression on his brother’s face. “What is it?”

He held the note out to Red Hood. “Read it. Tell me if Joker says anything about his whereabouts, his plans…”

Jason accepted the smashed piece of paper slowly, never breaking eye contact. Then, he looked down at the note in silence for a few seconds. Then a few more seconds. Then a few more.

“&*#%,” he breathed, turning his head to the side. Dick saw his throat bob with a hard swallow.

“Well?”

Jason paused. Folded the note. Then, “If I ever see that clown again, I’m ripping out his tongue with my bare hands.” He cursed. “That sick _& *$^*%&._”

“Hood?”

“No. There’s nothing about his location. Or what that…what he’s up to next.” Jason cleared his throat. Then pulled out a lighter from one of his belt pockets. “You mind?”

Dick bit back a shudder. “Please.”

The lighter clicked, and Jason waved the corner of the note above the little tongue of flame. When it caught the paper, and spread slowly upward, he tossed it down on the ground. They both watched the note until it curled into a dark pile of ashes. Then, for good measure, Dick ground it into the pavement with his heel.

Sirens were wailing somewhere in the background, and Dick checked his cowl’s clock. He needed a distraction, and luckily, he’d been presented with one just yesterday. He could only hope the others would be on board.

“Well.” He took a deep, measured breath. “How would you guys feel about another trip to the circus?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

She’d trained for this. How many nights had she gone through scenarios in her mind again and again until they played out just right? How many times had she decimated the Cave’s training dummies, inside _and_ outside her chair? Tested her reflexes and response time? Pictured stabbing a batarang into that pale, grinning face—

It didn’t seem to matter. Her heart was jackhammering against her ribcage all the same.

She intercepted Alfred in the hallway. He’d been on his way to the front door.

“Miss Barbara?”

The old butler tried to follow, but she turned her head and barked, “Get to the safe room. I can handle this.”

Did it count as a lie if she wasn’t sure? No. It wasn’t a lie. Barbara was ready this time. She hoped.

The doorbell continued to ring.

Her fingers brushed over the solid wood, and she could feel her chest spasm with each staggered breath. Slowly, carefully, she looked out through the peephole.

She’d expected a Hawaiian shirt. Or a wide-brimmed had pulled low over a pair of soulless, smiling eyes. What she got instead was…a girl?

No, a woman. Short, but mature. She was bobbing on her sandaled heels, clutching a green-wrapped package to her chest like she couldn’t decide whether it was a baby or a bomb. Her white-blonde hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, and she could see that the ends were dyed in bright blue and pink.

“Hello?” the woman called out. One of her eyebrows crept up towards her hairline. Her thumb pressed against the doorbell. _Ding-dong._

There was something almost familiar about that voice…

“Helloooo? Batlady? I know you’re in there!” _Din-don-din-don-diiinnng-dooonnng._ “Stop ignorin’ me, wontcha?”

Barbara felt her breathing stop altogether. Her fingers curled a little more tightly around the batarang in her fist.

“Hey! Lemme in, already! It’s important!”

_Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dooooonnngggg!_

With her other hand, Barbara gripped the door handle, thumb poised on the thumb piece. With a sharp inhale, she threw open the door.

The woman let out a squeak and hopped backwards. Her eyes widened considerably when she saw the sharp weapon in Batwoman’s hand. Barbara snarled, and raised her arm. The tip of the batarang came to a rest bare centimeters away from the woman’s button nose.

“Uh…h-hey, Batlady,” the woman breathed.

Barbara bit back a snarl.

“What the #$%% are you doing here, Harley?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed the last bit of fluff before things start to spiral out of control! :D
> 
> "Sal de nuestra propiedad y deja a mi familia en paz, bruja racista o de lo contrario llamaré al perro monstruo de mi hermano." - which essentially means, "Get off our property and leave my family alone you racist witch or I'll call my brother's monster dog." 
> 
> The translation's probably wrong, since it's been a while since I've really spoken much Spanish. If it's not right, please let me know so I can fix it! Thanks! :)


	23. Sirens Part 1

 

 

 “So, let me get this straight—”

Barbara stared down at her mug with a pinched frown. The honey-colored liquid inside reflected her tight expression and, since she’d removed her mask, her narrowed eyes.

She and the Clown Princess of Crime were seated at the kitchen island like two friends having a nice, friendly gossip-session over a cup of tea. The tea, of course, being a very literal element, since the first thing Harley had done when she’d invited herself inside had been to fix a warm drink for the two of them to share while they talked. It was the kind of situation that should have fallen into the ‘when pigs fly’ category, and yet, there they were.

The uneasy feeling churning in the pit of Barbara’s stomach that had started with the sound of the doorbell had only intensified when the former-psychiatrist-turned-psychopath had sauntered through the door uninvited and made herself at home. It had ebbed a little, once she’d seen that Harley wasn’t out to kill her (yet), but even so…

“Get what straight?” Harley took a grating sip out of her mug. It was a tiny yellow Tweetie-Bird mug. Dick had gotten it for Tim as a joke for Christmas one year. “I woulda thought I was bein’ pretty straightforward, Batlady.”

As if the other woman hadn’t spoken, Barbara continued, voice clipped, “The Joker asked you to bring that package—” She nodded to the green-wrapped box sitting a few feet away. It loomed like a malevolent answer to a question Barbara wasn’t quite sure she wanted to ask, and Harley hadn’t elaborated anything as to the contents inside.

“Right-o.” Harley’s head bobbed. She took another sip, side-eyeing the box with an added helping of caution.

“—But you and Joker aren’t together anymore.”

There was a brief flicker of hesitation. Like even Harley wasn’t sure how to answer it. But then, the look of panicked confusion on the harlequin’s face melted away into something a little more resolved. She nodded once. Then again.

“Told that sorry sonuva-gun to take a hike,” Harley said, like a mantra. She tipped her chin up. “Toxic relationships, and all that. Don’t know why I didn’ see it sooner, but…”

Barbara lifted an eyebrow.

Harley cleared her throat. Then, gingerly, lifted aside her red and white striped scarf with her fingers. “Told him I was sicka all his lies. Sicka bein’ his punchin’ bag. Etcetera, etcetera. So he…slashed my throat and dumped me out a third-story window.”

There was a thin, pink scar over the pale skin of Harley’s throat. Barbara had seen enough scars to tell that it had been done by a small knife—probably a switchblade—and was several months old. Eight or nine, maybe. Which would fit with the timeline Harley had given her while she was digging into the pantry looking for sugar.

Barbara put her mug down on the countertop with a soft clink.

“He manipulated you, Harley,” she said. “I get it, honestly. But you _had_ to have known, even in the middle of it all, that what he was doing—what you were doing with him—wasn’t right. You hurt a lot of people. You did a lot of damage.”

The Clown Princess’s face fell. “Think I don’t know that, Barbie? Can I call you Barbie? Y’know, I never woulda pegged you as a ‘Barbara’. Kind of an old lady name, right? Probably something tough like ‘Lilith’ or ‘Lola’ or—”

“Strong words,” Barbara fired back dully, “From a woman named ‘Harleen’.”

Harley shrugged.

“And no,” she continued, “Don’t call me ‘Barbie’. My friends call me Barbara or Babs, and since you aren’t either of those, you can call me Batwoman.”

She watched the clown flinch at her tone, but wouldn’t allow herself to do the same. Harsh? Yes. But this was Harleen Quinzel. How many times had this woman attacked her in her Batgirl days? The two of them had exchanged too many kicks, jabs, and beatings to be called anything close to ‘friends’. Friends didn’t lock friends up in jail. And friends didn’t aid and abet psychopathic killers when they went after friends.

Then something like realization flickered on Harley’s features for a fraction of a second.

“Ah-ha,” she said without a trace of humor. Her brow furrowed, lips turning down in a pout. “So that’s why you’re all cranky.”

Barbara feigned a gasp. “What do you mean? Besides the fact that the side-kick-slash-girlfriend—”

“ _Ex-_ girlfriend!”

“—of my mentor’s arch-nemesis—who, by the way, got him _killed—_ is sitting in my _house_ drinking _tea_ while she pretends that nothing is wrong with this picture?”

Harley shook her head. Then, put down her own mug.

“Look, Barb— _Batwoman.”_ The harlequin searched Barbara’s face with her wide gray eyes until she wished her mask was secured back in its place. When she continued, Harley’s voice was carefully measured and deathly still. “I didn’ know. About what Mista J did to you.”

Barbara felt a prickle of discomfort trace down her spine. That’s what she got for forgetting for a _moment_ that she was sitting next to a trained and decorated psychiatrist. (A _former_ psychiatrist, but still.)

She let out a huff. “Sure, Harley.”

“I’m serious! He said he was gonna scare Mista Wayne—this was _before_ we knew he was Batsy, eff-why-aye—by tearin’ up the place. And…beatin’ up the staff. Just…’harmless fun’, is what he said.”

“ _Harmless fun?”_ Barbara poured as much cool venom into those words as possible. She met the former clown’s eyes and clenched her jaw. “How much do you know about what he did, exactly?”

The other woman’s eyes flashed dangerously. There was something slightly unhinged and dangerous in her tone as she snapped, “Same thing he did ta me every &*%# day for _years._ And then some, I guess. But get offa your high-and-mighty horse, Barbie-girl, cause you ain’t the only one that psychopath ever hurt.”

Barbara bit down on the side of her cheek. Frowned. Then lowered her gaze.

“Fine,” she snapped. “You’re right.”

Those three words triggered a deafening silence that hung in the room like a final breath. Judging by the wide eyes, that was the last thing Harley had expected her to say. Barbara hadn’t completely expected to say it, either. The indignation and rage that ran side by side with any thought of the Joker and what he’d done to her was still simmering inside her chest. Just waiting to leap out.

But Barbara realized that she’d been letting that pot boil over too many times, lately. She thought of Jason, and the shock and hurt on his face when she told him he couldn’t possibly understand. Understand what? The Joker had beaten him bloody and blown him up. And Tim? That psychopath had carved up his face, leaving scars that he could hide but never heal.

And they’d all lost a father to that monster. Barbara’s pain wasn’t unique. It didn’t set her above anyone else, or invalidate anyone else’s pain. And it was about &*%# time she realized it.

“I’m sorry,” she added softly. And she was surprised to realize that she sort of meant it.

Harley reared back a little, then recovered quickly.

“I—yeah. Okay. It’s okay. Listen, I just wanna say—"

“Moving on?” Barbara said, voice clipped. That was about all the time she wanted to spend on the subject, so it was time for a quick change. “If you and the Joker really aren’t together anymore, then how did he ask you to bring me that box?”

They didn’t even need to look at the offending package. Harley had been avoiding it with her eyes the entire time, and Barbara had no idea what to expect from it. Or whether or not to be afraid, like the harlequin clearly was.

Harley bit her lip, eyes darting to the side, before landing on Barbara’s once again. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and cleared her throat. When she finally opened her mouth, it was to say, very softly, “He found me. Found out where I’ve been stayin’. Called me up one night and said that he left a package for me down at the post office, and to go pick it up and take it to Wayne Manor. Said if I didn’t, he’d…kill the person who’s been harborin’ me.”

“Harboring you?” She leaned forward slightly. “Who?”

Harley blushed. The flush spread up her cheeks and to her ears as she shrugged her shoulders. “Um…Pamela Isley? You know her?”

The Clown’s voice was very small, but Barbara heard her loud and clear.

“As in Poison Ivy?” she deadpanned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Harley, I think Ivy could hold her own against Joker.”

“Mmm. Probably.” Another shrug. “But…I didn’t wanna risk it. Pammy’s always weaker when it gets colder out. Gets all wilty n’ pale. And Mista J…he’s got a way of gettin’ to folks no matter what.”

“Believe me,” Barbara said, turning her mug thoughtfully by the handle. “I know.”

After a few beats, she met Harley’s curious gaze and said, “Did he tell you what’s inside?”

Harley’s face took on the shade of the makeup she used to wear as the Joker’s partner. A little more pale, and a little more sickly, but it reminded Barbara of the Harley Quinn’s previous look all the same. Her fingers gripped the handle of her mug tightly.

“Harley? What’s in the box?”

“I don’t…” the woman spluttered, “I don’t…um…I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” Barbara narrowed her eyes.

“No.”

“Harley,” she warned.

“Look, I brought it here to do what Mista J said. But also cause I wanted to ask for help. Protection! For me and Pam. If anybody can help, it’s you. Please, Batlady. I just—”

“Harley.”

“It’s not a bomb,” the Clown said quickly. “It’s not gonna blow up or spew chemicals or anything dangerous like that! It’s just…a warning.”

“A warning?” Some distant cousin of panic surged inside of Barbara. One that she didn’t care to identify, but it made her stomach do cartwheels. Before Harley could protest, she reached out, and gripped the corner of the package. She drew it towards her, and it made a dry whispering sound as it scraped across the countertop.

Harley’s face was growing paler and paler, and her eyes never stopped tracing the box as Barbara pulled it in front of her. With a small rip, she tore a hole in the dingy green wrapping paper, ignoring the words scrawled in black on top.

**_TO MY DEAREST BABSY_ **

Those words alone made her stomach lurch like the drop on a rollercoaster, but she tore them aside and flipped open the cardboard flaps. Joker had forgotten or neglected to tape it shut, and when the box opened up, both women wrinkled their noses at the sickly sour scent that wafted into the air.

Inside, there was a mound of folded purple tissue paper (the Joker was really milking the whole color scheme thing, apparently). Settled on top of the wrinkly folds was a white paper that had been folded in half. Likely a note of some kind with the ‘warning’ Harley had mentioned.

Harley was shaking her head emphatically. “D-don’t.”

There was something inside of Barbara that was screaming out its agreement. Telling her to listen to Harley Quinn. She should slam the box shut now and chuck it out the window, burn it, toss if off of Gotham bridge. _Anything_ but keep it there in her house, in her safe place.

Then again, the Joker had already violated her safe place. What more could he do?

If Barbara wasn’t even strong enough to read some trivial letter…

She lifted the note out of the box. There was a small white square piece of paper underneath that, but she ignored it and flipped the note open gingerly, as if waiting for it to explode between her fingers.

Scrawly, scratchy black writing assaulted her eyes.

**_HIIIIII DARLING!_ **

**_How’s life? How are the kiddies?_ **

**_It’s been far, far too long since our last romantic rendezvous! But since I’m back in town, I thought I’d send good ol’ Harls with an anniversary present all wrapped up and pretty just for you! Can you believe the date’s coming up already? I relish this time of the year, boo. You should know that. So to show you the breadth of my affection, I’ve enclosed a piece of that magical night, and a little something extra. What do you get for the woman who has everything, after all? Simple! You give of yourself! I’m rather fond of sappy romantic gestures like that, and so I hope you can appreciate the lengths I’ve gone to! _ **

**_I’ll see you soon darling!_ **

**_‘Til then_ **

**_J_ **

**_P.S.   Oh and by the way………I hear you’ve got your legs back._ **

**_I can’t wait to see what kind of fun we can have with that._ **

With one smooth motion, Barbara tore the note in half. Her breathing was shallow and frantic enough that Harley looked up. Her expression betrayed concern, which Barbara ignored. Shook her head, feeling her heartbeat pounding in her head like war drums. The air around her seemed to press her in, constricting and tight, and—

With a shaking hand, she reached out for the box. Snagged the little extra white square. Turned it over.

She caught a flash of a glimpse. But that was all she needed.

Blood. Oversaturated. So much of it. Scarlet where it was thin and black where it had pooled. Bare skin, wide eyes, mouth open in an agonized scream—

Barbara flung the picture aside and stumbled backward. Her head was spinning like a tilt-a-whirl, and she grasped the edges of the counter to keep herself upright. That monster…he’d _photographed_ it. As if that night wasn’t seared into her brain forever…

Harley was shouting something. There was another voice crying out. Barbara just barely caught the words ‘ _the #$%%’d you do to her?’_ through the pounding in her skull.

The world was slipping and sliding from side to side under Barbara’s feet. She stumbled around the island towards the kitchen sink, and with every step she could feel the floor bounce beneath her boots. Her stomach was simmering, and she could feel hot sourness rising in her throat. Her gut lurched. Barbara had just enough time to tip her head into the sink before her breakfast came up.

Fingers wrapped around the cold edge of the sink, Barbara gagged, heaving into the stainless steel that Alfred always tried so hard to keep clean. It burned her throat, her nose. Her eyes were watering. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she expelled everything in her stomach. Over and over again.

Then she felt gloved fingers brush her hair away from her face. A hand rubbed circles on her back.

“Okay,” a soft voice said, “Okay. Just get it out, O.”

Barbara retched and spat. Then felt something cold and damp drape over the back of her neck.

“What’s that?” the voice demanded.

“She needs to cool down her core,” she heard Harley pipe up. “We’re also gonna need to sit her down and let her breathe. I can get some cold water to put her hands in.”

“Why the %*&$ would—"

“Listen, purple girl, she’s gonna go spiralin’ right into a panic unless you lemme help! Got it?”

“Oh, right. Guess you used to be a shrink, huh?” The hand on Barbara’s back stilled. “Speaking of. What the #$%% are you doing here? Last I checked, _I_ was on Bat-sitting duty?”

“I’m on an…errand.”

They helped her up, giving Barbara time to swipe the back of her hand over her mouth before she was led to one of the bar stools. Harley’s hand was on the back of her neck, keeping the cold washcloth in place. Barbara looked up to the other woman.

She was dressed out in full uniform—the one Barbara had helped her design. Black and purple Kevlar-blended material, flowing polymer cape, steel-tipped military boots…but Barbara would have recognized her by the white cross over her heart alone. That, of course, and Helena’s trademarked scowl.

As her former team-mate sat her down, she glowered down at Barbara like a frustrated teacher who had just written her up for misbehaving during a lesson. Barbara felt a sudden stab of sympathy for each and every student in Helena’s physics class. As a vigilante? Helena was intimidating enough. As a high school teacher? She must have been downright terrifying.

“Why did you look at that?” Huntress demanded. Then, shifting her sharp glance to Quinn, “Why the %&#$ would you let her look at that? Do you have _any_ idea what kind of stuff can trigger her?”

Harley went wide-eyed. She tossed her arms out to the side incredulously. “Look, I tried to tell her, lady! She didn’t listen! I told her—”

“What else is in there, anyway?” Huntress ignored the clown’s protests and made a face. “It smells like something’s turned in here.”

All eyes went back to the box. Barbara was still panting and shaky, her breathing shallow and uncertain, so it was Helena who reached over and lifted aside the tissue paper. It crinkled softly, like a whispered threat. And then Huntress’s hand flew up and away, like she’d been scalded. She turned away, blinking, and swallowed. Hard.

“The _#$%%,”_ she whispered.

“W-what…” Barbara croaked. Her throat was still on fire, and her mouth tasted like bile. She tried again and managed, “What else is there?”

Helena’s piercing gaze pinned her like a knife as she looked up suddenly. With a deep breath, she shook her head and snapped, “Doesn’t matter.”

“Hel—”

“It. _Doesn’t. Matter.”_ Helena’s eyes were wide behind her mask, but then they narrowed as she scooped up the box with one arm, and brought up her wrist computer with the other. A translucent purple screen shimmered into the air. Barbara had designed that for her too, back in her Oracle days. She’d figured each of her ‘agents’ needed similar gear that she’d operated with as Batgirl. And it had been a crucial success. Having a supercomputer embedded into one’s gauntlet made crimefighting infinitesimally easier, as it turned out.

With a barked voice command, she brought up a facetime. As soon as Harvey Bullock’s large face filled her screen, Helena let out a curse in her native tongue.

“Good ta see you too, sunshine,” Bullock fired back, clearly unamused.

Helena huffed. “Where’s Gordon?”

“Out. So, looks like you get me, tonight. Though…” He squinted. “You’re not exactly who I was expecting, either. Where’re the Bats?”

“Shouldn’t you be off hunting for donuts, pencil-pusher?”

“Shouldn’t _you_ be in the state pen right now, spandex? Oh _wait._ You’re not. Cause _I’m_ the one who—”

Helena twisted her wrist, pointing the screen down towards the package. Whatever was inside, Bullock now had a full view. “Shut up and take a look at _this.”_

Harvey’s gristly eyebrows shot clear up his head. He raised a fist to his mouth, coughing, then turned to the side. “Gah. Ugh. What the _#$%%,_ Bertinelli? Is that a…?”

“It absolutely is,” Helena shot back tonelessly. “Now do me a favor and get your men down to Wayne Manor to pick this… _thing…_ up, alright? I need it _gone._ Like, _yesterday.”_

Bullock still looked a little green, but he managed to swallow down whatever had come creeping up his throat, and bob his head. “Affirmative. Sure thing. But next time you wanna flash a severed human—”

“ _Now,_ Harvey?” Helena growled. Then, she hung up.

Barbara could already feel the queasiness subsiding. She sat up a little straighter on her stool, frowning. Harley offered her a cereal bowl of cold tap water but she waved it away with a shake of her head. “A severed human _what?”_ she demanded.

Harley looked positively ill. Helena swallowed hard again, and pushed the box as far away from Barbara as she could manage.

“Like I said,” she muttered. Then planted her hands on her hips with a determined tilt to her entire posture. Barbara watched her eyes flicker briefly towards the harlequin, but then she said, “Look, Batman told me to keep an eye on you. Keep you here and out of trouble. Watch a movie. Have a glass of wine or something. Or, uh, juice, since you Bats don’t imbibe for some reason.”

Barbara’s mouth twisted. Something akin to rage fluttered in her chest, and she felt the sudden urge to hit something. It was bad enough that Dick had saddled her with a _babysitter._ But to ask that babysitter to sit her down with a movie and a juice-box— “Are you _serious?”_

At that, Helena’s lips quirked up. “Figured you’d say that. So…” Her hands waved over the fully-armored Huntress regalia. “What say we put ‘punching stuff’ on the itinerary for tonight instead?”

Barbara’s gaze darted to the photo laying upside down on the countertop. She bit back a shudder and set her shoulders.

“#$%%, yes. This,” she sighed softly. “Is why you’re my favorite.”

“Ha! Totally telling Di and Zin you said that.”

“Oh, don’t you _dare—”_

“Too late, ginger,” Huntress purred.

“You—”

“Um.” Harley cleared her throat, and the two armored women turned their heads to stare at the third wheel. “An’, what about me, super-ladies?”

She was dressed out in civvies. No makeup. No mask. Add to that the fact that she was a former felon and supervillainess…

Helena sniffed. She swung one hip out, balancing a fist on it indifferently. “What _about_ you?”

Barbara stood. Shakily, so both women flinched forwards as if to steady her. But she waved them off, took a breath to steel herself. With one fluid motion, she stomped on the handle of the trashcan at the end of the kitchen island, and swept the offending photograph inside. As the lid slammed shut with a sound of finality, she announced, “You can come with.”

“ _What.”_

“Hel, c’mon.” Barbara matched Helena’s pose and raised an eyebrow. “She already knows everything, and I’m pretty &*#% sure she would’ve already killed me if that was what she was here to do. So. If we’re patrolling, why not add another pair of fists?”

Huntress actually snorted. “You. Of all people.” She jabbed a finger in Harley’s direction. “With a _clown?”_

Barbara’s other eyebrow crept upward. For a few moments, the two women engaged in a silent but intense staring contest.

Helena Bertinelli could talk tough. As one of the highest-ranking heavy-hitters of the Birds of Prey, everyone else usually let the mob-princess-turned-vigilante have her way without too much argument. Hard to argue through bloody teeth, after all. And Huntress took advantage of that fact anywhere and anytime she could. There were only a handful of people that she answered to…and luckily, Barbara sat perched very high up on that list.

So when she levelled the Batglare at her friend, Helena offered up no counter argument. Instead, she let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-growl, and crossed her arms tight over the cross on her chest.

Barbara hummed. _Point._

“She doesn’t have anything to wear,” Helena snapped with a quick wave towards Quinn. “And she’s wearing _heels,_ for %&^#’s sake.”

Batwoman scooped her mask off the countertop and brought it up to her face. She listened for the soft series of clicks as it slid into place, and smirked.

“So, what? That’s an easy fix.” Barbara squared her shoulders, and cast one more look at the offending package. Maybe Helena and Harley were right. She didn’t need to see what was inside to get the overall message.

Joker was back—if he’d ever left this decrepit city in the first place—and he was gunning for Barbara.

But was else was new? She’d been caught off guard tonight; her sore stomach and burning throat were testament to that. But she was done being unprepared for the Joker. And next time, she’d be ready.

In more ways than one. Her thoughts flitted briefly to the files from Gordon she’d tucked underneath her mattress. Once she had the chance to study those…well. More than one question would be answered. Her nemesis would no longer be such a mystery.

And, also, she couldn’t wait to smack the grin off that pathetic monster’s face.

But first, there were other people who needed smacking.

Barbara waved a hand and managed something like a real smile. “Now, ladies. Shall we go kick some Gothamite #$$?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The trunk of the Batmobile held just about everything a nocturnal vigilante’s dark, Kevlar-wrapped heart could desire. First aid supplies, flash-grenades, rocket launchers, a tire jack strong enough to change the treads on a tank, plushies for any child victims of crime, shock blankets, etc., etc. Not to mention all of the ‘emergency’ snacks stashed throughout all the pockets compartments and boxes the Trunk had to offer. (There was nothing quite like snarfing down a Twinkie after you’d been punched in the face by Killer Moth.)

Today, their own miniature Room of Requirement offered up some civilian clothes. Useful for any vigilante who wasn’t willing to drive all the way back to the Manor. Possibly braving the wrath of one very ticked-off Barbara Delphi.

Dick almost shuddered as he pulled on a pair of jeans. He could almost feel the heat of Barbara’s death-glare from here.

He shouldn’t have left her behind. He couldn’t have known the Joker would be a no-show. But the carnage he’d left in his wake…well, maybe it had been for the best.

Next to him, Jason was tugging on a jacket, ‘accidentally’ smacking Tim’s head with the sleeves as the latter tried to stuff his feet into a pair of boots. The other three boys/men were already dressed and ready. They leaned against a white sedan they’d parked next to in the garage, and were watching them with crossed arms and bored frowns.

“Wow,” Terry mumbled to his mentor. “So slow.”

“Indeed,” Smaller-Damian huffed. “They can change into their uniforms in minutes, but when it comes time to change out…”

“’Ey!” Steph grunted from the other side of the Batmobile. Thanks to the tinted windows and the sheer height of the vehicle, she had all the privacy she needed. A black Kevlar sleeve flopped over the top of the car, and they could hear their sister panting. “I’d… _ugh_ …love to see _you_ try and get outta this…skin-tight… _eh…_ monstrosity!”

“Oh, I have, babe,” Jason crooned with a smirk. He leaned back against the Batmobile. “In fact—”

“Jay,” Dick warned, eyeing present-Damian’s raised eyebrow.

Steph let out one final grunt, then tossed her uniform over the top of the vehicle. It landed over Tim’s face. Tim let out a muffled shriek.

“Oh, I _know_ you have,” she simpered back. Dick couldn’t see her face, but he was almost dead certain she had a smirk to match Jason’s. “To be continued, baby?”

Jason shivered, and huffed. A wisp of his breath visibly curled through the air. “Yes, please. Preferably somewhere warm. Why the #$%% is the circus in town when it’s so cold out, anyway?”

There _was_ a sharp chill in the air—though maybe it was just because they were nestled in the depths of a parking garage. It was the closest thing they could find to Amusement Mile, but Dick had to admit that the concrete boxes were basically refrigerators in the last few months of the year. It was so cold, that everyone’s breath puffed out into clouds with every exhale. His bare fingers tingled, and the only thing Dick could smell through his steadily numbing nose was the scent of gasoline.

“Haly’s doesn’t usually do East Coast tours this late in the year,” he admitted with a shrug. Then pulled on a jacket he snatched out of the Trunk. “But they’ve done it before. Don’t worry. They heat the tents, and they even pass out hot chocolate!”

Steph’s blonde head popped up over the top of the Batmobile. “I like what I’m hearing, I like what I’m hearing…but why’d they pick _this_ year to come out so late? Methinks this’d be a lot more fun, in, like, _July.”_

“Amen to that,” Tim muttered. One of Steph’s boots thunked against his skull. “Cut it out, already, Steph!”

Stephanie hummed obliviously, disappearing back into the safety of her side of the car.

Dick noticed Terry watching Tim carefully. His brows were knit, and the tilt of his frown was decidedly sad. Or, was it worried? Dick barely knew the kid, so he couldn’t have said for sure.

Older Damian noticed him staring though, and leaned over to nudge Terry’s shoulders. The teenager shook himself a little, and said,

“Well, what’s the holdup? It’s a ten-minute walk from here to the big-top, so we should get going.”

All four present-day Bat-brothers nodded to Steph’s position. Their sister clearly understood the sudden silence, because it was her hand that appeared over the roof of the car next. Or, more specifically, one choice finger.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she snipped. “Just…one more…aha!”

She flipped over the top of the Batmobile and landed gracefully on her toes. Right as she stuck the landing, she tossed her arms out to the sides, and managed to catch both Tim and Jason in the face.

“ _Voila!”_ she said. Then lowered her hands to strike a pose. “Stephanie Brown is ready to panic at this disco, ladies and gents! Now, shall we blow this popsicle stand?”

Terry shot Older Damian a helpless glance, as if asking for help. ‘ _What is she saying?’_ he mouthed. But his partner only offered up a thin smile.

“Disco?” their Damian demanded, tilting his head. “Brown, we are going to the _circus.”_

She let out a sigh through her nose. “We’ve already established that I have failed you in my big sisterly duties, Dami. It’s not your fault.”

Dick frowned. “Isn’t that Barbara’s sweater?”

An indignant hand fluttered to Stephanie’s chest as she let out a mock gasp. “It is a _cardigan,_ Richard!”

“Steph.”

She shrugged. “It was cute, it was available, and it was _mauve,_ which, no offense, is so not her color.” She did a twirl, and popped on booted foot into the air for effect. “Aaaannnd, she’s not even here, thanks to our stellar boyfriend-of-the-year over there, so—”

She cut of sharply. But obviously not because of the look on Dick’s face, because her own lit up like a spotlight. He could almost see a floating lightbulb click on above her head.

“Ohmigosh! _Guys!_ Operation _Dibs!”_

“Yeah?” Tim asked, standing up a little straighter. “What about it?”

“Think about it!” Steph gushed. She paced around the circle of huddled, freezing Batkids, waving her hands excitedly as she spoke. “It’s perfect! Babs isn’t here, right? But! Dick invites her to the show tonight, we get those two lovebirds _alone,_ preferably somewhere away from prying eyes and with the appropriate mood lighting, and—”

Jason perked up. “Yes!”

They high-fived. Even Tim and younger-Damian were nodding to each other like this made perfect sense.

Dick cleared his throat. “Don’t you guys think I should get some kind of say in the way I propose?”

“Psh.” Steph snorted. “If we left it up to you, this thing’d never happen.”

“But,” Tim amended, flapping a hand in a placating gesture, “You _do_ get a say. You’re going to be the one doing the actual proposing, Dick. We’re just gonna…help you out a little.”

Dick sighed, combing a hand through his hair. He should’ve known it would be like this if his younger siblings ever found out. And now that they had, there would be no stopping their diabolical plans. All he could do was grit his teeth and pray they knew what they were doing. Because at this stage, it was far too late to do anything about it but shut up and go along for the ride.

Stephanie snapped her fingers and spun on her heel. “Let’s get this show on the road, crew! Babs ain’t about to propose to herself!”

Jason chuckled. “Holy $#^%. This circus has no _idea_ what it’s in for.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“The _things_ I do for you, O.”

Barbara waved her off with a sigh. “Oh, c’mon. I forget my card _one time,_ and you start—”

“It’s _not_ the first time, babes?” Helena snipped back, voice hushed. A passing shopper and her daughter shot them sidelong glances as they pushed past them. The area in front of the dressing booths was narrow and cramped, but the two masked women managed to nestle themselves amongst the discarded clothing racks and baskets of marked-down items. “You did the same thing that time we all went out for mochi! And who had to pick up the check?”

“Oh, not this again…”

“Allow me to remind you. It wasn’t the _billionaire brat!_ It was the high school physics teacher and the—what does Zinda even _do_ anyway? But the point is—” Helena unfolded one hand from her crossed arms and jabbed a finger in the air pointedly. “—by the time you pay me back everything you owe, _I’ll_ be the billionaire brat!”

“Emphasis on _brat,”_ Barbara huffed under her breath, smirking.

“Cute. You wanna go, gingersnap?”

But before Helena got the chance to throw down, the door of the dressing room stall on their left flew open with a smack. The shop attendant shuffling through let out a squeak and scurried off, pausing only to gape at the two ladies in full-on vigilante uniform.

Then, Harley sauntered out of the stall. Her hips waved, and Helena’s mouth fell open. Barbara couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow, either.

The clown princess had picked out a pair of shimmery booty-shorts to pull over a set of ripped fishnets. A tight red and white baseball tee stretched over her chest and torso, with curly cursive letters that Barbara couldn’t even hope to decipher. Harley had also done her hair up into high pigtails (Barbara noted that she’d found some hair ties with red plastic balls), and divided the dyed strands so that one side was pink, and the other blue. She must’ve also wandered into the seasonal Halloween display. Her face was done up in its usual pasty-white, lips painted fire-engine red, and a smear of pink on one eye, blue on the other.

When she saw their reactions, she squealed.

“Isn’ it _cute?”_ Harley spun around, dancing a little in place. “Sooo much comfier than that spandex I used-ta wear!”

Helena made a sound at the back of her throat, and Barbara smirked over at her. Then, crossing her arms over her chest, said, “Looks good, Harley. But let’s find you a jacket or something, yeah? It’s only supposed to get up to fifty degrees today.”

Harley struck a pose. “The cold never bothered me anyway!”

“Yeah, well, that’s not what’s bothering Huntress.” Barbara’s smirk widened as her eyes narrowed. Helena shot her a glance that was downright murderous, but she elected to ignore it. “I think I saw a bomber jacket on the way in that would totally match the shorts. Very cute. Should we go look?”

The harlequin let out another delighted squeak and took off. Barbara trailed after her, and Helena followed lazily.

“Oh, Helena, you bi disaster,” Barbara sang quietly. Harley had gotten enough of a head start on them that she couldn’t hear, but Helena certainly did.

Huntress huffed. “Takes one to know one, _Babsy._ Do me a favor and step off, aight?”

Barbara shrugged innocently, tucking her hands behind her back as they marched to the front of the store to pay for the items the Clown Princess had snatched from the far corners of the store. Helena payed (begrudgingly), while the cashier gaped up at her.

Gotham was more or less used to seeing Bats walking around. There were even trending pages and tags on a few social media sites with names like ‘BatWatch’ or ‘#ThatGothamLife’. They featured pictures, gifs, and videos of the Family in random, candid positions. The Red Hood challenging a group of boys to a game of basketball, Batgirl hanging upside down from a fire escape whilst texting furiously, an impossibly large pink gum bubble expanding from her mouth.  Red Robin yawning as he waited in line at a local Starbucks (while a little girl holding onto her mom’s hand gaped up at him). Robin helping a little line of ducklings cross the street to the park. Batman and Batwoman playing solitaire on the back of a moving bus (thank heaven for magnetic playing cards, but even so, they’d lost the Queen of Spades somewhere around Maeser Boulevard and 14th street).

More likely than not, a post or two about Batwoman and Huntress taking Harley Quinn out shopping would pop up on some platform or another. But, since Huntress was supposed to be haunting the streets of Cormorant, it was doubtful that she’d be recognized. Helena _was_ an expert at staying out of the public eye, after all. (Barbara would be lying if she said she wasn’t at least a little jealous.)

The automatic doors slid open, and the three women were blasted with cold air. Barbara saw Harley shiver out of the corner of her eye, and bit back the urge to say ‘I told you so’. She and Helena had both warned against the fishnets. It was October, for crying out loud! But since they were ‘super cute’, Harley had insisted.

Helena and Barbara both reached for their belts. Two soft beeps chimed in the air, letting them know that their rides would arrive momentarily. Harley was bouncing eagerly on the balls of her feet, teeth chattering, but otherwise just as sunny as usual.

“So,” she chirped, “What’s the plan, ladies? I was thinkin’ some club hoppin’, maybe a little more window shoppin’, and _then_ we could—”

Helena cut her off with a sharp wave of her hand. “We’re going to _patrol,_ Quinn. That means we ride around the city looking for people to punch in the face. No more shopping, and _definitely_ no clubbing.” To Barbara, she added, “You still got that police scanner on your bike?”

Barbara snorted. “Is the Pope Catholic?”

“Okay, well, so do I,” Helena said with a roll of her eyes. “Just wanted to make sure we have some idea of who we’ll be punching out tonight.”

“ _Yes,”_ Barbara groaned, pumping a fist in the air.

A little worried line appeared between Harley’s pale eyebrows as she looked back and forth between the two masked heroines. “Should I be worried about the obvious delight the two a’ you take in dealin’ out violence? Most likely stemmin’ from childhoods where you were both put on tight leashes an’ encouraged to excel at the cost of a normal childhood, leavin’ punchin’ stuff as your last and only outlet? In fact—”

“Shut up, Harley,” Huntress and Batwoman both moaned.

By then, the tell-tale squeal of rubber on asphalt hit their ears. The two cycles whirled up towards the curb, gliding to a stop in front of their waiting mistresses. Huntress’s cycle was a shimmering black, purple and blue monstrosity with a finish like a beetle’s shell. The thing looked like it weighed a ton, but Barbara knew from experience that Helena’s bike was a quick chaser that had no problem keeping up in a race. Between its armor and speed, it was perfect for Huntress in pretty much every way.

Batwoman’s cycle was slimmer, sleeker, and a heck of a lot subtler. It was all black, and had a seat that stretched the rider out onto their stomach. Barbara loved few things in the world more than she loved her bike. It was like flying when she rode it, and it could give chase like no other. But, amazing as it was, there _was_ one drawback: it would only seat one.

Barbara fitted the helmet over her head, mindful of her hair and mask, then smirked over at Helena.

“You get the passenger.”

Huntress’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, _#$%%_ no.”

“Hey!” Harley whined. “I’m a good copilot! I swear! I’ll even man the radio for ya, Hunty!”

Barbara bit back a maniacal laugh as she threw one leg over the seat and settled into place. She twisted the handles, and felt the engine purr beneath her stomach. It sent an electric sort of thrill racing up her spine, and she smirked over at Helena, who looked like she was about to bust a blood vessel or three.

“Absolutely not,” she snapped. “ _No_ radio, and don’t you _dare_ call me ‘Hunty’!”

“Whatever you say, Hunty!” Harley squealed and caught the helmet that Huntress tossed her. Then leapt onto the bike behind Helena and wrapped her arms around the vigilante’s ribs. Barbara’s smirk only grew as she watched Helena’s face turn a brilliant shade of pink. But then Huntress flicked the visor on her helmet, and her blush was hidden from view.

So, Batwoman reached for the button on her dashboard and said, “Alrighty, ladies, let’s see what Gotham has for us tonight.”

Another press of a button patched the signal into the speakers in their helmets, and all three women listened to the static-ridden sounds of various police officers all over the city issuing out bulletins and requests.

_[…Calling all units…10-53 on 47 th, I repeat…]_

_[…10-80! Officer Jennings requesting—_ aah!]

_[…Multiple, sir! We’ve got—]_

_[211…Meta involvement confirmed. Code MLW…I repeat, Code MLW…]_

Batwoman and Huntress both exchanged wide-eyed glances. Harley, on the other hand, looked completely lost.

“Uh…what?” the clown princess demanded, tilting her head.

“10-53,” Barbara muttered. “Man Down on 47th.”

“10-80 means explosion,” Helena added grimly. “211’s a robbery. But…what’s code MLW?”

Barbara revved her engine again. It buzzed below her and she bit the side of her cheek. “The ‘M’ means Metropolis. LW most definitely means we’re gonna be dealing with LiveWire. Is your suit insulated?”

“LiveWire?” Harley squeaked. “Uh—”

“Isn’t yours?” Helena fired back. Then, she kicked up the kickstand on her cycle and Barbara could hear the multi-toned monstrosity roar to life. “Looks like we’re headed down to 47th.”

“Woo-hoo,” Barbara deadpanned. Still, she couldn’t help the grin slipping up her face.

It wasn’t everyday an out-of-towner showed up to cause trouble in her city. Gotham usually consisted of the usual cast of dastardly characters. Gang bangers, muggers, car jackers, and of course, the obligatory mental case. Either that, or any of the given brightly dressed Rogues looking to start a fight and wax poetic about their latest scheme to take over the greater Gotham area.

But LiveWire? She was a Metropolis native. Connor and Kara often complained about tangling with her. She couldn’t hurt the Kryptonian supers, but electricity was a real &^$#% to contest in a civilian environment. Barbara could sympathize, having dealt with Electrocutioner on multiple occasions. But she’d never had to deal with this particular baddie before. And she had to admit…she was more than a little excited by the prospect.

With a few more revs, Batwoman and Huntress smirked at each other.

Then, their cycles shot away from the curb.

Barbara knew Huntress was fast. She knew that her own cycle was fast. But it never ceased to amaze her or take her breath away at the sheer _speed_ she could achieve on the back of her mechanical steed. She could feel her hair whipping in the wind behind her. Leaned down, hugging her cycle until her breastplate rested against the humming engine.

And she _loved_ it. This feeling of flying through traffic, the sound of the cycle whining and roaring beneath her with every turn and maneuver. If she’d wanted to, Barbara could have silenced the engine with the press of a button, putting the cycle into quiet stealth mode. But right now, it was unnecessary, and definitely uncalled for.

She wondered if this was how Wally, Bart and Barry felt when they ran.

[ _“Music time!”_ ] Harley announced. Out of the corner of her eye, Barbara could see her reaching around Helena for the controls. Huntress was doing her very best to slap the clown’s fingers away without wrecking the bike. But, unfortunately for everyone’s eardrums, Harley was successful.

Computer generated saxophone blared over the comm line and Batwoman winced as Lizzy Dizzy’s latest single, _Freestyle Love_ began it’s fast-paced intro. Steph loved that woman, and the entire techno-pop genre as a whole. But Barbara was decidedly not a fan. She waved a hand until she caught her companions’ attention. Then flashed them a thumbs-down.

Harley pouted, but reached under Huntress’s arm to switch the station.

_“Where did ya come from, where did ya go? Where did ya come from Cotton-eye Joe?”_

Barbara growled. It just _had_ to be the bass-boosted version. She was willing to bet good money the station had put some bored college intern in charge this afternoon…

[ _“No!”_ ] Huntress shrieked. [ _“For the love of—! No! I swear, Quinn, I will_ murder _you if you don’t change the—"_

The unmistakable opening notes of Brittany Spear’s _Toxic_ slid over the comms, and she heard another exasperated wheeze from Huntress’s line.

[ _“Is there_ anything _else on, Harley?”_ ] Barbara asked.

[ _“Nope!”_ ] the clown replied, popping the ‘p’ with obvious delight. [ _“Unless you want more Cot—“_ ]

[ _“This is fine,”_ ] Huntress snapped. Barbara could hear the heavy regret in her voice. [ _“Let’s just speed up and get their faster, Babs.”_ ]

In response, Batwoman popped a wheelie. A few pedestrians gaped from the sidewalk, and she heard a few cheers. Huntress took her decreased speed as an opportunity to pass her up, shooting her the bird as she barked out a taunting laugh.

The front wheel of Barbara’s cycle slammed back down, and she could hear the soft puff that came from the shocks before she gunned the engine. She streaked past Helena, and raised her own finger to the wind.

They sped down the street, threading between cars and other motorcycles. One man on the back of a souped up Harley Davidson let his jaw drop as he watched them pass. Batwoman even caught sight of a little girl in the back seat of a silver minivan gasping out at her. She waved a little, and the girl beamed in the space of a second before she was gone.

It didn’t take long to get to 47th street, and it didn’t take the World’s Greatest Detectives to determine that LiveWire had been making a scene.

Digital screens and billboards that usually hung on this section of Gotham’s skyline like picture frames had all been blown out. There were little bits of broken glass and plastic littering the sidewalks that crunched under the wheels as the three women pulled up to the line of police cars that were circled up on the street. The flashing lights and heavy buzz of radio chatter filled the air. A few officers were pushing civilians back away from the supposed epicenter of the destruction.

It was a nightclub—or, at least, it used to be. The plate glass windows out front had either been cracked, or blown out altogether. The twirling cursive neon lettering that spelled out the club’s name (Club Le Jardin) was dim, though that might just have been because of the daylight.

It was one of the older historical buildings in Gotham. Barbara recognized the architecture as something that might have been popular in the days of Bruce’s father (or maybe even grandfather). Before hosting Club Le Jardin, it’d been a deli, and before that, a variation of bars and clubs that were tossed between warring gang families.

Batwoman, Huntress and Harley Quinn dismounted. Barbara spotted a familiar figure glaring up at the club’s neon letters, and stalked towards him. The others followed.

Harvey Bullock turned, and his sour expression shifted to one of bemusement.

“Well! If it isn’t my favorite Bat.”

“Harvey,” Barbara said with a quick smile and a nod.

“Though,” he said, scowling when he craned his neck to look over her shoulder, and spotted the other two, “I gotta wonder at what kinda company you’re keepin’ these days.”

“&*#% you, too, Bullock,” Helena snarled. “Aren’t you supposed to be picking up that package I showed you?”

“You mean that $#!^ you waved in my face? I sent some guys to get it. Told ‘em to bring barf bags, cause they’re gonna need ‘em. Now waita hot minute, here.” The man squinted, before his face stretched into an expression of horror. “Is that _Harley Q—"_

“She’s with us,” Barbara said quickly. Then, turning to the wreckage (and hoping to switch topics) she added, “Tell us what’s happening, Captain.”

Bullock didn’t look remotely mollified, but he huffed out a smoky breath and turned back towards the wreckage. With a wave of his hand, he announced,

“What you’re seein’ here is the lovechild of an electric chick from Metropolis and a pack of Gotham City thugs. Haven’t figured out which gang is responsible as of yet, but we’ll see soon enough. So far they’ve killed two civilians, one of my guys, and blew up the only joint in this town that serves a decent Scotch.”

Harvey looked tired. Worn. Barbara knew from experience that he cared deeply about the men and women under his command. The fallen officer must have been a heavy blow.

A woman turned away from a gaggle of news reporters, and scowled at the three costumed vigilantes. Her arms crossed over her chest as she stepped up to Harvey’s side, and Barbara took her in quickly.

She was tall, and had deeply tanned skin that was close to Helena’s shade. Her curly brown hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and she wore a shining badge pinned to a worn leather jacket. Between the jacket, the jeans, and the knee-high boots, Barbara would have instantly pegged the woman as a detective. If she didn’t already know that was the case, that is.

“Montoya,” Barbara said with another tip of her chin.

Renee Montoya was not amused. She cast the Batwoman and her ensemble a withering glance, then said, to Bulllock, “I thought the capes were all helping the Commish out at the library.”

Harvey shrugged. “Lots of capes in this city, ‘Toya.” Then, to the other three women, he added, “Most of us are down there with ‘em. Called a Hazmat team in, too. Then _this_ little $#!^ show happened—” Harvey jabbed a finger at the ruined club. “—and we’re just lucky we managed to muster up enough men to keep these freaks contained.”

“They’re holed up in there right now,” Montoya said grimly. “They have a few hostages they managed to pull off the streets before we cornered them. Threatened us about ten minutes ago that if we don’t let ‘em go, they’ll start shooting.”

Huntress lowered her chin and started talking entry strategies with Montoya, while Harley bobbed her head to some tune inside her head. She reached for Bullock’s badge, and started peppering him with questions.

But Barbara felt like the ground was spinning like a merry-go-round below her boots. Library? Hazmat team?

Her fingers crept to her belt. Undid one of the pouches and drew out a small cell phone. With a hard swallow, she fired off a quick text:

 **BARBARA –** Hey, babe. We should order takeout tonight. I’m thinking Chinese or Italian.

The soft swooping sound of the delivered text did nothing to calm her nerves. She glanced up at Montoya and Huntress, who were watching her carefully. The former seemed annoyed, while the latter’s mouth was stretched into a concerned frown.

“Anything?” Huntress asked softly.

Barbara shook her head. “Not yet.”

She seemed reluctant to say anything else, but Helena bumped shoulders with her carefully, and said, “The roof’s our best entry point. We’ll get in through the vents, and make our way to wherever they’ve got the civilians. You and I will take that way, while Harley strolls in through the front doors. We figure she’s our best distraction, since she’s a known Rogue. The Gothamites’ll recognize her right off the bat—no pun intended, sorry—and while their attention’s on her, we go for LiveWire and then start picking off the baddies one by one.”

Barbara’s head bobbled as she stared at the wreckage of the club, letting Helena speak. The sound of her friend’s voice was grounding. It helped her stay in the present, and out of the library. The soft lilt of Helena’s barely-there European accent helped her dodge past thoughts of Dick and the others in the hands of the Joker, or _dead—_

“Hey.” Helena’s breath puffed against her ear. “Tune it out for now. Can you do that?”

Barbara swallowed again. But nodded. “Sorry.”

“Babes, you don’t have to be sorry about a &*#% thing.” Helena drew something rectangular out of a holster at her hip, and pressed a button on its side. With a click, two wings slid out, and the Huntress’s wicked crossbow was ready for action. She smirked, then threw a wink Montoya’s way. “Hey. Maybe when this is all over, I can buy you a drink?”

The detective raised an eyebrow without smiling. If anything, her arms crossed more tightly. “I’m already seeing someone,” she said flatly.

Huntress shrugged, but managed to mask her disappointment. She prepped a bolt, and tipped her chin up. “’Ey! Harley! Get your #$$ over here!”

Harley, who had been trying to snatch Bullock’s gun, looked up sharply. Her pigtails whipped in the air behind her head. She grinned, bright and eager, and skipped over to her companions with a happy hum.

“Whatcha need, Hunty?”

Helena growled, but relayed the plan while Harley nodded, interspacing Helena’s words with a quick ‘uh-huh’ or ‘yup’ every now and then.

Barbara slid a few batarangs from her belt. The edges flashed blue and red in the lights from the patrol cars. She was pretty sure she had something in her belt that could render LiveWire’s powers useless, or maybe incapacitate her altogether. She’d read a few League case files on Leslie Willis, but had never really delved too deeply into the Metropolis-based villainess.

Dick was okay. Jason, Steph, Tim, Terry, and both Damians were all okay. Barbara would have _known_ somehow, if they weren’t.

“Batwoman?”

Barbara looked up from the ‘rangs in her palm. Renee Montoya was standing in front of her, looking slightly less hostile now that Harley and Helena were turned away. It had never been a secret that the detective didn’t share Commissioner Gordon’s condonation for vigilantism in her city, but she and Bruce had settled on some foundation of shared tolerance. Barbara had worked with her before, as well, and liked to think that she and Montoya shared some form of mutual respect.

“Is something wrong?” Batwoman asked her, raising an eyebrow before she realized that Montoya wouldn’t be able to see it.

Renee shifted a little, looked towards the shattered windows of Club Le Jardin. Then, painfully, managed to say, “There’s someone in there. Someone I care about.”

Barbara waited, saying nothing.

“Can you…” Montoya screwed her eyes shut. It looked as though it were painful to get the words out, but she managed to say, “promise me that you’ll get her out safely?”

Her eyes flew open when Batwoman reached up to rest a hand on her shoulder.

“That’s what we ‘capes’ do, detective.” She lowered her hand and stepped over towards Helena. “We’ll get _everyone_ out safely.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Kaaaaaaaallll!”

“Kal you’re not gonna buh- _lieve_ this!”

Conner looked up from the boardgame he and Jon had laid out on the floor to glance up at Clark, who was seated in his usual place at the dining table. Kara and Karen’s voices were screeching through the house, and while they could’ve been anywhere, he had a strong suspicion that they were about to make a dramatic entrance. Clark lowered his newspaper, face drawn, and shot his clone/pseudo-son a pleading glance.

Conner just shrugged. “They’re _you’re_ cousins.”

Jon reached forward and slapped his hand. The kid was beaming in triumph, even though Conner was totally letting him win. “Hey! It’s your turn!”

With a sigh, he reached down to flip a card, then moved another red piece out of start. Knocking one of Jon’s blue pieces back to his home base.

“Sorry,” he deadpanned.

Jon gripped his sides and let out a delighted cackle, just like he did every time Conner said the name of the game.

It was definitely a new experience, having someone younger around Ma and Pa Kent’s house. The girls didn’t count, since Karen was biologically older than him, and Kara was _chronologically_ older. And, until Clark and Lois had moved their little family back out to Kansas (maybe because of the Bats…scratch that, _definitely_ because of the Bats…), he’d been the only guy. (Pa didn’t count.) And it was definitely weird to think that his mentor/pseudo-dad had had another son this _whole time._ Conner would’ve thought something like that would have come up during a briefing. (“ _Oh, sorry, Con. I can’t help you with this alien invasion, I’ve got to go to my other son’s baseball game. What’s that? Oh, yeah, lemme introduce you to Jonathan…”)_

Jon had immediately taken a shine to him, though. Conner had been tempted to shrug him off, hurt that Clark seemed to favor his biological son more than he ever did him. But he’d talked with Dick—who, turns out, knew a few things about ‘replacement’ brothers.

 _“You just have to find some common ground,”_ his friend had told him, _“And be patient, man. This kid didn’t ask for any of this, and it’s not gonna help anything if you give him #$%% for things that are out of his control.”_

 _“Yeah?”_ Conner had only scowled. _“Well, I didn’t ask for any of this, either! Clark’s had a_ kid _this whole time, and he just decides to drop this bomb on us now?”_

Dick’s mouth had twisted into a smirk. _“Believe me. I know the drill. But SB, you have a chance here. This kid looks up to you. Don’t waste that.”_

So, reluctantly, he’d made the decision to be the big brother this kid had never had.

Besides, Conner didn’t have the heart to turn the kid away. Especially with those big pleading puppy-dog eyes.

Karen and Kara flew into the room. Karen seemed to appear in front of Clark, holding aloft a smartphone like a deadly weapon. Eyes narrowed and lips pursed, she bent in half to hold it at her cousin’s eye level.

“ _Look_ at this,” she snarled through bared teeth.

Kara was right on her heels. She nodded, pointing meaningfully at something on the phone.

“LiveWire!” she gasped. “In _Gotham!”_

Clark nervously glanced at the screen, then up to each of his cousins in turn. Then, he swallowed. “So?”

“ _So?”_ Karen’s nostrils flared. “ _So?”_

“We need to help?” Kara shrugged, like it should have been obvious. “LiveWire’s kind of _our_ job.”

“And Gotham’s _their_ city,” Clark said with a shrug. He turned the page, rustling the newspaper meaningfully, and pretended to be very interested in the sports pages. “We agreed to stay out. So we’re staying out.”

Karen gaped. “But—”

“That’s final.”

Kara shot Conner a pleading glance. “Con…”

Conner slid another piece across the board. As soon as he’d finished, Jon eagerly flipped a card and set to work on formulating his next move. He looked up at his kind-of cousins with a frown.

“I’ve worked with Dick and Barbara. They’ve got this under control.”

“Yeah, but are you _sure_ they—”

“I win!” Jon threw his hands in the air with the biggest grin stretching over his face. He giggled and toppled backward onto a pile of couch cushions left over from their pillow fort.

Conner smiled, then nodded again. “Trust me. They’re the Bats. I think they can handle it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

All things considered, they handled it well.

Barbara and Helena had managed to squeeze through the vents and drop into one of the back supply rooms without any trouble. Where, _boom,_ they’d found the hostages. Tied up, gagged and in varying states of either ‘terrified for their lives’ or ‘royally PO’d’. But definitely _alive._

While Helena put her ear to the door, listening for a guards, Barbara had set to work untying everyone. Apparently, the thugs had pulled random people off the streets to use as hostages, and it was evident in the complete randomness of their choices. There was an accountant, a teenaged boy in a school uniform, a homeless man, and one more woman who Batwoman recognized immediately.

She pulled the gag from Katherine Kane’s mouth, and the woman scowled up at her. She raised an eyebrow, and said, “’Bout time you capes got here.”

With a slash of her batarang, Barbara sliced the zip-ties around her wrists. “Always a pleasure.”

She’d met Kate Kane before, at several society bashes that Bruce had dragged her and the rest of her siblings to. As Bruce’s cousin, Ms. Kane enjoyed the stardom of being related to one of Gotham’s most notable philanthropists. As the daughter of Colonel Jacob Kane, she enjoyed the respect of the military community. And as the heiress of Kane Industries…well, she never had to worry financially.

But all that had changed when Kate had left Gotham to serve two tours overseas. Certain bits of personal information had been brought to light, namely her sexual orientation, and Brigade Executive Officer Kane had been dishonorably discharged. Not even her father’s reputation had been able to salvage her career, and Kate had returned home disgraced and disenchanted.

Barbara and Dick had kept tabs on Kate, who’d returned to Gotham just a few weeks after Bruce’s death. Their ‘aunt’, as it were, had taken a public stance against vigilantism, calling for ‘capes’ to register themselves or answer to the law. Thankfully, the media, the social elite, and the public itself mostly ignored her demands. After all, in her ‘private’ life, Kate Kane had been getting into drugs, booze, and anything and everything she could to distract herself. For someone trying to push an agenda, Kane was doing a magnificent job of undermining her own reputation.

But though they’d talked only a few times, Barbara could see something like vague recognition flutter behind Kate’s piercing gaze. She turned away before the woman could get a full view of her face.

“Huntress,” she said. “Status?”

Helena pulled away from the door. “I hear one guy just outside. The others are further back. Soon as we kick down the door, things are gonna get messy, so these guys—” She gestured towards the hostages who were carefully getting to their feet. “—should stay back. Find some cover.”

“Any sign of Harley?”

“Should be any minute, now.”

Batwoman nodded. Then, turned to Kane. “You’re ex-military. Can you take care of these people?”

The hostility in Kate’s gaze dropped, giving way to open shock. “I…yes. I can do that.”

“Good. Huntress?”

Helena nodded. “I hear her. Go?”

“Go.”

Out of the corner of Barbara’s eye, she saw Kate lead the other hostages towards the back, taking shelter behind a few crates. Huntress reared back. Then kicked.

The door flew outwards, taking down the guard outside and startling the others in one fell swoop. Gunfire started popping immediately, and the concrete at Batwoman’s feet chipped and flew into the air. She and Huntress dove through the hole left by the kicked-out door and rolled out of the line of fire. They skirted the edges of the room, shooting crossbow bolts and throwing batarangs.

Harley was laughing and singing a high-pitched rendition of ‘Can’t We Be Friends’ as she punched thugs in the face. Barbara spotted an arc of electricity fly through the air towards the clown princess. She lunged. Caught Harley around the waist. Both of them hit the ground with a grunt, barely missing the shock. They righted themselves, and whirled around towards the villainess stalking towards them.

LiveWire was picking her way over the wreckage. She stepped over thugs, broken bar stools and shattered glass bottles, smiling all the while.

The Metropolis native was a formidable-looking enemy. Sparks crackled over her eyes and danced between her fingers. A few even shimmered beneath her pale blue skin like glowing galaxies. Her hair was a shock of neon-blue that seemed to buzz with potential electricity, and when she grinned at them, Barbara even spotted sparks on her pristine white teeth.

“Well, well, lookit who decided to show up,” the woman said delightedly. She may have been from Metropolis, but her accent definitely betrayed bits of Gotham. “I was hopin’ for the Big Bat ‘imself.”

Barbara stood. Squared her shoulders, and raised her fists. “Sorry to disappoint.”

LiveWire’s smile was unrelenting. “Don’t be. I hear the clown’s havin’ fun with him _right now._ Far be it from me ta take away another con’s toy.”

Barbara felt her fists lower. Her heart stuttered in her chest.

She needed Dick to answer that text. Every second that went by without an alert or tell-tale chime was another second she was distracted. And if she didn’t hear back, she was going to lose her mind…

Huntress must have picked up on her hesitation. She was creeping up behind the villainess, crossbow raised and eyes narrowed to focused slits. Helena seemed to draw in a breath, then said, “Well, you’re our toy now, &*!$#. Hands up.”

LiveWire blinked, features twisting in mock-surprise. “Alrighty, then.” She raised her hands, then before any of them had the chance to react, spun around. An arc of lightning shot from her fingertips and hit Huntress square in the chest. Batwoman and Harley cried out as Helena stiffened and convulsed, eyes blown wide. Her mouth fell open into a shattering scream before she collapsed into a heap on the ground.

“Good grief, how many’a you freaks _are_ there in this town?” LiveWire shook out her hand with a smirk, then returned her attention to the other two costumed women. Sparks crackled in the air, and Barbara could feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention. “Doesn’ matter, I guess. That number’s about ta be a _lot_ smaller.”

Barbara felt something rise in her chest. Heat, but colder. Rage, but cooler. She pulled herself up to her full height, mouth twisting into a savage snarl. Beside her, she felt Harley stiffen.

“Wanna bet?” Batwoman growled. The sound of her voice was harder than she expected. Sharper. Like the shard of a broken booze bottle. She nodded towards Helena, who was still twitching on the floor. “You’ll pay for that.”

“Hmm.” LiveWire only smirked. Raised her fingers once more into the air, and fluttered them a little. The gesture was condescending, but Barbara wasn’t sure whether it was that, or the electricity in the air that was raising her hackles.

The fingers glowed. LiveWire reared back.

But whether she was going to zap them or fry them, LiveWire never got the chance. Out of nowhere, a thin black stripe flew from the shadows and coiled around the villainess’s wrist. LiveWire gazed down at her dimming fingers in shock as the electricity seemed to drain out of the appendage. From behind the bar, a woman’s smooth alto tone crooned,

“There’s something you should know about Gotham, darling. When it comes to capes, you cut off one head? A dozen more take its place.”

Barbara knew that voice like she knew her own. A smirk twisted up her face as the woman stepped out of the shadows.

It had been a while since she’d seen Selina break out the catsuit, but it seemed to fit her like a second skin. Apparently a newer model, due to the hip pockets and strangely shaped goggles. But Barbara would have recognized the sleek Kevlar and pointed cat ears anywhere. In one hand, Selina held the handle of her signature bullwhip. With a slow, sly grin, she pressed a button on the handle.

LiveWire jerked as all of her electricity was directed right back at her. There was a pop, and her eyes rolled back in her head as she reeled.

“You alright, Kitten?” Selina asked her, never tearing her gaze away from the villainess.

Barbara nodded.

“Kitty!” Harley gasped. “How _are_ you? You never call, you never write!”

“Harley.” Selina acknowledged the clown princess with a tip of her chin. Then, to Barbara, “We’ve got bigger problems. That little shock is only going to stun her for a few more seconds. We need water, and lots of it.”

Batwoman’s eyes widened. “To short out her powers. Right.”

But first? She rushed over to Helena’s side. The Huntress was laid out flat on her back, and Barbara could see her arms and legs spasm every few seconds. She didn’t look great, but her suit seemed to have taken most of the blow. All of the Birds’ uniforms were insulated, since Cormorant’s streets were almost all lined with lightboards and neon signs. It had only taken once—when Dina had been thrown straight into a giant lightboard advertising soda during a run-in with Bane, and suffered severe burns—to re-evaluate the suits’ designs.

 Barbara reached for her friend’s shoulder. Helena’s arm jerked up to slap her hand away. A ragged groan leaked out of her lips as her eyelids cracked open.

“D-did…” Helena coughed, then licked her lips and tried again. “Did we get her?”

“Almost.” Barbara offered Huntress a hand. “You good?”

Helena’s gloved hand clapped into hers, and she helped the Huntress get shakily to her feet. With another small sound of pain, Helena winced, then straightened, and zeroed right in on Catwoman.

“Oh. _You’re_ here.”

“Hello, Huntress.” Selena raised one thin eyebrow.

On the floor, LiveWire twitched.

“Water,” Batwoman barked.

Harley’s head popped up behind the bar, two bottles raised in her hands. With a gleeful shout, she hurled them across the room, and Helena and Barbara both lunged forward to snatch them out of the air before they could shatter against the ruined floor.

With a small huff, Helena popped the cap off the bottle. “Bottoms up,” she said dryly.

Batwoman followed suit, and she and Helena both tipped their bottles down. The liquid inside glugged as it streamed out, and doused LiveWire, whose eyes shot open wide as she screamed. Her back arched as she threw her head back. The sparks all over her body fizzled and crackled like fireworks on the Fourth of July, before they went out completely.

Leslie Willis was panting, chest rising and collapsing in ragged breaths. Her eyes roved over the four women standing above her. Then, as they fluttered shut, she let out a heavy moan. “Aw, &*%$.”

Barbara reached down and seized the blue woman’s shoulder. “&*%$ is right, Leslie. Now. We’ve got a few questions that we’re dying to have answered.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Why the #$%% did I agree to this?”

“Be _cause,_ Timmy,” Steph said, grabbing his hand. “We _all_ agreed that this is way better than the alternative.”

“Which would be listening to Dick chatter on and on about circus mumbo-jumbo until we die. Again.” Jason grabbed his other hand, and Tim could practically feel the bones crunch. “Trust us, Timbo. You picked the right group.”

Together, his siblings dragged him down the boardwalk, ignoring his weak protests and dragging feet.

As soon as they’d all arrived at Amusement Mile, Dick had made the executive decision to split up. For some reason, their older brother seemed to doubt his old circus’s ability to handle _all_ of the Wayne kids at once. So, in order to make the most of the afternoon, the Batkids had split into two groups. The first group would stay with Dick and get a behind-the-scenes tour of the circus tent, while the second hit the boardwalk games and booths. The official plan was to meet up just before the show, and watch Dick do flips with the rest of his fellow-acrobats.

Both Damians and Terry had been almost eager for the chance to see the circus up close. Older Damian and Present Damian, especially, seemed interested in the assortment of animals. Tim, though, had been reluctant to stick around—especially with all the weird looks the future-bats had been giving him—so had opted for the other group. (Kicking Steph and Jason out of the circus tent had been a given, since those two were deemed ‘most likely to start a fire’.)

Once they got started, though, things started to get a little more fun. It started when Jason insulted Tim’s honor by insinuating that he _couldn’t_ beat a ring-toss game, and had only escalated from there. A few of the booth managers clearly recognized Jason and Steph from their last visit to the carnival, though, and adamantly refused them service. Which meant it was up to Tim to clean them out of their prizes. All three of them were clutching armfuls of stuffed animals and plastic trinkets by the time they’d filed through the various games.

“Next stop, snacks?” Steph asked hopefully.

“Babe,” Jason gently said around the giant stuffed panda in his arms, “I love you, and I’d love to enable you, but remember last time?”

“Okay, so maybe the fried bubblegum was a mistake—”

“Yeah, fried bubblegum wasn’t the only thing comin’ up. There was fried cheeseburger and fried butter in there too. In fact, I also saw—”

“Guys,” Tim groaned, feeling his stomach lurch in sympathy. “TMI.”

Steph flipped her hair over her shoulder with an indignant huff. She shot both boys an annoyed side glance before sweeping the rest of the boardwalk with a critical gaze. “Fine. So, what _do_ you guys wanna do next?”

“Tilt-a-whirl again?” Jason suggested with a grin.

“And you wonder _why_ I was puking my guts out?” Steph mumbled.

“What about one of the circus attractions?” Tim suggested. He nodded over towards the Big Top. Around the larger tent, a few smaller tents and booths had been set up. Dick had mentioned something about these attractions travelling with the circus, and while they were supposed to be avoiding Haly’s for the time being, what was the harm in checking out a few of the sideshows? “Look, Jay. The strongman’s got a high striker set up over there.”

His older brother’s eyes caught the tower topped by a round brass bell. Some kid was trying to hit the lever at the bottom with the mallet, wobbling under its weight. Jason’s eyes glowed.

“Yes,” he said. “Steph?”

“#$%% yeah. You go babe,” she shot back. “Show that bell who’s boss.”

Tim was unceremoniously dragged towards the sideshows. Along the way, he dropped a plush snake and a plastic yo-yo, but he couldn’t bring himself to complain.

Jason dumped his prizes into Tim and Steph’s arms, and strode right up to the man running the high striker. He was large, even taller and broader than Jason, and looked like he could snap the Red Hood like a popsicle stick. A winding tattoo of a flowery vine curled around his left bicep, and an anchor with Cyrillic lettering underneath decorated the other. He turned to Jason with a large smile and said,

“Welcome. Would you like to play the game?”

Tim pegged his accent as Eastern European. Possibly Russian. Possibly Serbian.

“Dude, I would _love_ to play the game.” Jason grinned, then rifled in one of his pockets. “How much?”

The man squinted down at all three of them, and Tim noticed that one of his eyes was a little paler than the other. For a tense few seconds, they stood there in silence, letting the laughter and screaming of kids and parents and other assorted passerby echo around them. Then, the man’s bushy eyebrows shot up his forehead.

“Wait one moment!” He bellowed. “Do you three know Little Dickie?”

“Little Dickie?” Steph asked. A slow grin was twitching at the corners of her mouth.

“Little Dickie,” Jason repeated. The look on his face was awed, like he’d been gifted a very special opportunity. (Tim silently wished his brother good luck in dealing with these two later.) “Yeah. You could say that.”

The man laughed, throwing back his mighty head. His hands were huge, and Tim couldn’t help but gape as he watched them clap gleefully together; they looked big enough to crush a man’s skull. “How wonderful! Dickie has told us all about you!”

“All good things?” Steph asked with a smile.

“But of course!” The man’s smile never wavered, and he waved one gigantic hand towards his high striker. “My name is Dmitri Zirkovski, and I am an old friend of Little Dickie’s parents. And so, any friend of Little Dickie’s is a friend of mine. And my friends play free!”

Jason whooped, punching a fist in the air. Dmitri handed him the mallet, and he hurried towards the tower. Steph joined him, leaving Tim and the strongman standing side by side.

Tim noted the man’s height, the width of his shoulders. He stood at least two or maybe even three feet taller than Tim did, and looked like he could pound him into the ground at any given moment. He couldn’t help but flinch a little when the man crossed his hulking arms over his chest.

“So,” he finally squeaked. “You said Dick mentioned us?”

Dmitri fixed those multitoned eyes one him. And grinned. “Yes. You are Timothy, correct? Dickie speaks very highly of you. Says you are very smart.”

Tim nodded. Swallowed. “Um. Y-yep. That’s me.”

“Very smart,” Dmitri repeated, looking back up at the other two. Jason was rearing back for a second or third try, while Steph goaded him on. “In fact, he said you were quite the detective.”

At that, Tim paused. “Did he, now?”

“He did indeed. You know,” the strongman said lightly, glancing at Tim from the corner of his eyes. “Where I come from, detectives are just smart little boys that are often getting into trouble with the wrong people. Sticking their noses into places that they should not.”

Tim frowned. Looked away from the high striker and up at the tall strongman. Who was now staring at him head-on.

“If I was you,” Dmitri said, slowly, deliberately, like he was driving each word home with a mallet. “I would be careful of where I stick my little nose. Otherwise I could stumble into something I should not.”

Tim took a half step back. “What are you—?”

The sound of a chiming bell almost made him jump right out of his skin. Right as he felt his soul leaving his body, he heard Jason give a mighty bellow of victory. A grin lit up the strongman’s face, and he marched towards Tim’s siblings.

“Wonderful, my friends! Please, choose any prize you would like!”

Tim was still shaking as he watched Jason pick out a stuffed purple elephant. He offered it to Steph with a wave of his hand.

“For you, my lady,” he said, in an exaggerated British accent.

“Aw, thanks, you big cheese.” Steph hugged the toy to her chest, and grinned over at Tim. Her eyebrows waggled with the challenge before she even spoke the words. “Whaddya think, Tim? Do you wanna try?”

Dmitri was staring at him expectantly. Tim swallowed hard.

“A-actually, Steph,” he squeaked, “how ‘bout we head over there?” Tim glanced over his shoulder towards the other booths, and his eyes landed on a lavishly decorated tent several spots away. “Oh, hey, look, there’s a fortune-teller. Let’s go check that out. Like, _right now.”_

With one quick motion, he seized Jason and Stephanie’s hands, and dragged them away.

“Tiiiimm, my prizes—” Steph protested.

“We’ll win more. Come on.”

Dmitri waved as they stepped away. “Come back soon, my friends!”

“We will!” Jason waved back.

“Totally,” Tim snapped. “Now come _on.”_

He didn’t stop until they were safely inside the flap of the fortune-tellers’ tent. The sign outside had called the place ‘ _Antonescu Sisters’ Fantastical Fortunes’,_ and the tent’s interior was draped with rugs and tapestries and all sorts of other fabric hangings. Not to mention all of the softly flickering candles and glinting jewels that hung from the ceiling of the tent, and were draped and set all over the interior. They put off a light that gave the space a comfy, yet almost eerie atmosphere, and Tim wasn’t sure whether it was that or the strange confrontation he’d just had that set his skin crawling. Overall, the fortune teller’s tent looked exactly the way Tim would have pictured. And it smelled twice as flowery. The soft smell of sage and possibly sandalwood hung heavy in the air and Tim got a full breath of it as he fought to calm his breathing.

Steph planted her hands on her hips, holding the toy elephant in one hand by its ear, and glanced around the tent. “So. Timmy. What the &*$% was that?”

“Yeah.” Jason’s pout was annoyed and slightly confused. “I totally could’ve won us more plushie $#!^.”

They both looked around, surveying the tent with equally critical eyes.

“A fortune teller?” Steph snorted. Skepticism wasn’t what Tim would have expected from her, given her usual reactions to the ‘whimsical and fun’. It twisted her features and made her shoulders slouch. “You can _not_ be serious.”

Jason, on the other hand, seemed intrigued.

“So…what? We gonna get our palms read or something?”

“That depends,” A warbling voice crooned. It sounded exactly the way the knit tapestries around the tent looked; warm and cozy, if a little dusty and worn.

“On what it is you seek,” said another equally shaky voice. Like the other, it had a melodious sounding accent that Tim couldn’t place.

All three Batkids whirled on the two elderly women entering from the opposite side of the tent. They were short and wrinkled, and, from what Tim could tell, identical twins. The wispy gray hair that peaked out from beneath their brightly colored head shawls matched, as did the twinkle in both of their age-squinted eyes. The women were even dressed in identical outfits; one a deep purply red, and the other a light turquoise blue.

As they stepped forward, the beads and shells they wore around their necks tinkled together musically. Tim realized based on the sound alone that they both must have been wearing bells around their ankles. The woman in blue was clutching a brown paper sack of what smelled like carnival food, and she set it daintily behind a decorative vase before looking up at them with a smile.

The woman in red just regarded them through narrowed eyes. “Hmm. They are with Richard.”

Tim knew immediately that she meant Dick, and took a step backward, wondering frantically if he needed to drag his siblings away from this tent, too. Did everyone here know them? But the way she pronounced his brother’s name—an insistent, rolled ‘ _Reec’_ before a breathy ‘ _hart’_ —gave him pause. Almost like the way Tim and the others would pronounce ‘Richard’ was the foreign way.

“Who’s Dreek-heart?” Steph raised an eyebrow, clearly not getting it as she butchered the women’s musical pronunciation. Tim elbowed her, and she turned to snarl at him before her eyes widened. “ _Ohhhhh._ She means—”

“Hmph. _Americans._ ” The woman in red sat down on an ornate cushion on the ground. Tim inspected the rest of the floor, and noticed that there were dozens of pillows set out.

“Sidra,” the woman in blue chided, joining her sister on another cushion nearby. “Be nice. They’re customers.” The way she dragged out that last word, pale eyebrows raised meaningfully as she cast a glance up towards the three Wayne kids, made Tim jump to attention.

“Uh, yeah,” he said quickly. “We’re here for…um…”

He looked to Jason and Steph. The latter just stared back, and he knew he couldn’t expect any help from her. But Jason straightened, and grinned a little as he said, “Can you ladies tell us the future?”

The woman in red—Sidra—snorted. But her sister just smiled warmly up at them. With a wave of her hand, and a soft jingling of the beads and bangles she wore around her wrists, she silently asked them each to take a seat. Once they had settled onto the plush carpeted cushions, she spoke.

“My name is Sorina Antonescu. This is my sister, Sidra. Please excuse her manners—” The woman in blue leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. “She’s just hates all Americans because her lover left her for another woman in New Hampshire.”

At that, Sidra gave an incredulous _hmph!_ “Sorina! What have I told you about ‘too much information’?”

Sorina tipped back her head with a tinkling bout of laughter. “Oh, _soră,_ that is exactly what we sell here! What is it the young people say here? Brighten up?”

“Lighten up,” Steph supplied helpfully, still frowning.

“Yes!”

Sidra only shook her head. Then, with a heaving sigh, stretched out her hand, cupping her palm. “Very well. Ignore my idiot sister, and her blithering. If you want your fortunes read, please supply us with payment.”

All three of them reached for their pockets, but Sorina reached out and smacked her sister’s hand. The noise made all of them jump, and Sidra’s face was pinched in indignation.

“These are friends of Richard!” Sorina protested, once again pronouncing their brother’s name in that rolling, breathy accent. As she turned to them, her eyes sparkled kindly. “Your money is useless here, _dragele mele_. Now. Who would like to go first?”

Like he’d been struck by lightning, Jason jerked to attention. “Ooh!” he said, one hand shooting up into the air. “Me first!”

Sidra rolled her eyes, then with a heaving sigh, pulled herself to her feet. She shuffled across the tent, anklets jingling brightly with every step. Sorina’s eyes watched Jason carefully while her sister retrieved three ceramic cups and a steaming kettle. Balancing those in one hand (Tim was impressed by the way she held it all in her knobbly fingers) she scooped up a metal bowl with the other. Once Sidra had what she needed, she plopped herself back down, and thrust a cup towards each of them.

Sorina scooped up the kettle. “Each of you must drink. Are any of you averse to tea?”

They shook their heads, then watched as she poured steaming liquid into each of the cups. They picked them up, one by one, and shot each other wary glances. Tim tipped his up to his lips, but Sidra and Sorina both squawked at him to stop.

“Let it cool!” Sorina chided, with a small smile. Then, once they’d obediently set their cups aside, “First, we must read Jason’s fortune.”

Jason’s jaw dropped. “How’d you know my name?” Then when Sorina winked, he gasped. “Oohhh. Right.”

Steph’s lips were pursed, unimpressed. Tim could admit, the sisters had probably learned their names from Dick, but he caught her watching both of the fortune tellers through slitted eyes. He wondered what was causing this reaction. The Stephanie Brown he knew should have been all over this sort of thing.

“We will need a scrap of clothing, a bit of hair? Something that has been close to you,” Sidra snapped, stretching out her hand again. “Keep in mind, we will be burning it, so it mustn’t be something you’re overly attached to.”

Jason ran his fingers through his hair with a frown. “Who says I’m not attached to my hair?”

Sidra’s gaze was unwavering, clearly unamused. With a sigh, his brother relented, and yanked a few strands of his dark hair out of his head. Without ceremony, he let them fall into Sidra’s waiting palm.

Immediately, her fingers curled over the hair, and she yanked the bowl over to sit in front of her crossed legs. Sorina drew a few stalks of some plant Tim couldn’t identify out of the bowl, and stripped off a few leaves. The sister’s combined the hair and leaves in the metal bowl, and before they could react, Sidra struck a match, and dropped it into the mixture.

A puff of red smoke shot up into the air, and Tim wrinkled his nose at the scent. It was acrid and bitter, and it almost reminded him of the smell of engine grease and gunpowder, and something else he couldn’t have guessed. Jason’s eyes were wide, expectant. Steph only frowned.

Sidra’s fingers carded through the smoke. Her eyes fluttered shut, rolling beneath the lids. Under their breath, she and Sorina began muttering in a language that Tim didn’t recognize either, but had the same lyrical quality as the other strange words they’d spoken.

The whole display was most definitely for show, but Tim could admit he was impressed by the performance.

“Mmmm.” Sidra cocked her head, eyes still thoughtfully shut. “All of your life, you have relied on strength. Strength of will. Strength of character. Strength of skill. Strength of mind. I see…pain. Much of it. From the times you were not strong enough.”

Tim shot Jason a sidelong glance. His brother had stiffened, sitting up straight like his spine had lost all of its curvature. There was an uncomfortable frown on his lips that tightened with every word the older woman spoke.

“You are…frustrated. Disappointed that someone you trust is not as strong as you once thought. This person is very close to you. In the past, they did you a great service, and have since continued to strengthen you, but now their own strength is beginning to fail…”

Jason’s eyes widened, as his brow line dropped. He shifted uncomfortably on his cushion, drawing Steph’s confused gaze.

“The path forward will require…” Sidra paused, but her lips still moved, as if she was sounding out different possibilities on her tongue. Just to see how they tasted. Then she resumed. “Patience. Endurance. It is you who will be the voice of reason when calamity strikes—and it _will_ strike—and when the strength of those around you begins to fail, you are the one who must carry the weight.”

The fortune teller’s eyes flicked open, and the frown she directed at Jason was slightly less…hostile. With a snap of her fingers, dry and surprisingly loud, the smoke dissipated.

“I’m sorry,” was all she said.

Jason didn’t reply.

“Who’s next?” Sorina asked, cutting into the heaviness of the atmosphere like a beam of sunlight. Her hands clapped together, and she focused her gaze on Tim.

He glanced down at the sweater he wore under his coat. _Not a chance._ Alfred would kill him if he came home with even a button missing. So he followed his older brother’s example and reached up to his scalp to pluck a few hairs. It stung a little, but Tim handed them over without a sound.

The same routine. Hair. Leaves. Match. A puff of red smoke. But the smell of the smoke in the air was mustier than Jason’s had been. Like the pages of an old book, or a dusty room. There was something earthier, too, like coffee grounds.

Once again, the sisters’ eyes closed, and they began whispering quietly. This time, though, it was Sorina who spoke.

“All of your life, you have had the luxury of certainty. Your wit and intellect have been your greatest strengths, and tools that you have always known you can rely on. Any decision you made, no matter how painful or desperate, was made with absolute certainty.” A furrowed line appeared between Sorina’s gray eyebrows. “I see…anguish. A catastrophic event has shaken you to your core. And it has robbed you of your certainty.”

It was uncomfortable to feel Jason’s and Stephanie’s eyes on him. He squirmed a little, hands fidgeting in his lap. Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea…

“You are full of doubt. What once was a clear choice has become fraught with unforeseen consequences. You feel yourself beginning to slip, your actions becoming more erroneous…” Sorina’s lips tilted downward, almost sympathetically. “This has made you unlucky in love. Paranoid. You hide your anguish well, but if unchecked, your doubts will be your downfall.”

Tim’s mouth went dry.

“The path forward will require…conviction. Stop doubting yourself and your talents. Where you fall short, you must rely on those closest to you. Everything will have its resolution.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, Sorina cocked her head to the side. Her brows lifted, as if she’d seen something unexpected. “And,” she added, tone betraying curious surprise. “I foresee a reunion. Someone you thought lost forever will—”

Sidra moved unexpectedly. Her hand cut through the smoke like a knife, waving in front of her sister’s nose. “Ach! Too much! That’s enough!”

Sorina scowled over at her sister, and snapped her fingers. Like it had been sucked away, the smoke disappeared.

“Fine,” she snapped. Then, her expression softened as she turned towards Stephanie. “And last but never least?”

Steph crossed her arms over her chest. Her expression was dark and closed off. From that look alone, Tim half expected her to call the fortune tellers out as frauds. Maybe jolt to her feet and stalk out of the tent.

Instead, she growled, “Gotta pair of scissors?”

“Scissors?” Jason asked with a frown.

“Like _#$%%_ they’re gonna use my hair. Over my dead body.”

Sorina passed Stephanie a pair of tarnished scissors, which she used to snip away a few loose threads on her mauve cardigan. Tim raised his eyebrows as they met each others’ gazes, but she merely shook her head a fraction, determination sparking in her eyes. The sisters took the threads, and repeated the ritual for the last time.

Strike the match. Puff of red smoke. Mumbling. Hand waving.

But as Sorina went to speak, her voice seemed to catch in her throat. Her eyes flickered open, breaking her own trance, and the three Waynes watched as she gazed down, wide-eyed, at the contents of the metal bowl. The old woman seemed to have stopped breathing. Her gnarled fingers crept slowly up to cover her mouth.

So it was Sidra who spoke. Low and rasping. Like a warning. Or maybe a threat.

“All your life you have relied on yourself. Thrust into competition from an early age…expected to be the greatest, the best, the most skilled. And like the pressure that turns coal into diamonds, you have been pressed by those closest to you. And…someone you have admired all your life. The…loss of this individual has set off something inside of you…something that has been festering like an…an unhealed wound, and now that the pressure is gone, it is…a-awakening.”

Sidra’s shoulders hunched, as if the words she spoke pained her. Jason and Tim both shot Steph horrified glances. But Steph only shook her head, eyes blazing, an almost smug twitch pulling at the corner of her mouth. She fastened her gaze on the red-clad Antonescu sister and crossed her arms tightly over her chest.

“Death follows you like a bird of prey,” Sidra gasped, breath heaving in her chest. “Circling. Diving. Taking. Your…parents…brother…no, _brothers…_ teacher…friends…taken from you. _Much_ has been taken from you and much more will be taken before all is said and done. And…before all is…said and done… _you_ will take. You will…t-take and take until…”

The smoke curled in on itself. Tim gazed at it, fixated on the coils and whorls that violently shifted, quicker than Jason’s or his own had moved.

“The p-path…forward,” Sidra panted. Her fingers curled on her knees until her wrinkled knuckles turned white. “Will require…”

She shook. Violently. Her eyelids flashed open, and all of them could see the whites of Sidra’s eyes as they rolled back into her head.

Sorina cried out, and thrust a hand into the smoke. The snap of her fingers made all of them jump, but as soon as the noise cracked through the tent, Sidra heaved a gasp. Her shoulders slumped. Her eyes returned to normal, and they squinted at the three Batkids with open malice. When they settled on Steph, they widened.

“You,” she said, voice softer than any of them had heard it before, “Oh, child. I’m so sorry.”

“Ha!” Stephanie shot to her feet. Her grin was triumphant. “I knew you were frauds!”

The declaration made everyone’s jaws drop, though Tim couldn’t honestly say he was surprised. Jason gazed up at her with open confusion, and the sisters with a mixture of surprise and annoyance. This didn’t faze Steph in the slightest as her sweeping hand cut through the air.

“We already know that Tim’s an indecisive little $#!^. Anyone could see that!” she crowed, “ _And_ that Jay’s obsessed with his own muscles—”

“Hey, babe,” Jason protested. His lower lip stuck out in an almost-pout. It was something that Tim would have thought hilarious if he wasn’t so rattled by his sisters’ raised voice.

“You know what I mean, babe,” Steph said, a little more gently. Then, quickly, switched right back into her confrontational schpeel. “But me? You got it all wrong, ladies! Pressure? No way!” She thrust a thumb into her own chest with teeth bared in a wicked sneer. “Everyone knows _I’m_ the dumb one! They couldn’t care less if I sink or swim, and no one’s ever had expectations for me in my whole &*#% life!”

Jason reared back, as if he’d been slapped across the face. He opened his mouth to add his two cents, but Steph plowed on.

“And my parents weren’t _taken from me._ My dad’s sitting pretty in the state pen while my mom shoots up every night to take the pain away!” Her tone was bordering on hysterical. Tim felt his own shoulders drop, as he stared up at her. But when she tipped back her head and let out a ‘triumphant’ laugh, Tim could see something prickling in her eyes that looked a lot like the anguish the fortune tellers had told him that _he_ carried.

“But most of all, ladies? If you saw all of my ‘loss’, then you would have known about my baby girl. The only person who’s ever really been ‘taken’ from me.” Steph’s arms dropped to her sides, and she fixed the sisters with a cold stare. Her tone dropped into something harder. More bitter. “But you didn’t. Just like all the others.”

She turned, and stalked towards the tent’s exit, where daylight streamed through the flap of the tent to create a little stretching triangle of light on the ground. Her hand was on the flap when she turned her head and said, voice low. “Oh, yeah. And this cardigan? It isn’t even mine. I _tricked_ you. If you ladies were worth your salt, you would have ‘seen’ that, too.”

Without another word, Steph threw aside the flap, flooding the tent with natural light, and stalked outside. Jason scrambled to his feet, hurrying after her. He disappeared through the opening, and once he’d gone, the interior was plunged back into the mysterious lighting it had had before.

Which, of course, left Tim to handle damage control.

He put up his hands in what he hoped was a placating gesture. “I am _so_ sorry. She isn’t usually like that, and—”

Sidra huffed, waving him off with one hand, while the other seized the cup of tea he’d set aside. Without a word, she dumped almost all the contents into the bowl, and swirled what was left in the bottom. She peered inside carefully. Then turned it upside down on her palm.

Sorina gazed at him with a little more sympathy. “We don’t need anything from that girl to tell you that her path forward will require…time. And support. Your friend Stephanie has several wounds that need healing. Once they do, she will be able to proceed. But until then…” She shrugged her shoulders, and the beads around her neck jangled.

Tim frowned. He could feel his brow furrow as he cleared his throat, and said, “Then. The fortune you read. That was—”

Sidra cleared her throat, and the other two turned their attention to the cup she waved triumphantly in the air like a trophy. “Finally! Some good news.”

“What?” Sorina leaned over, peering inside the cup carefully. Her eyes roved over the contents. Then, her eyes lit up. “Ooh! Yes.”

“You have not been lucky in love, thus far, boy,” Sidra told him. Tim wanted to protest, but he couldn’t bring himself to interrupt.

Unlucky in love? You could say that. Tim’s mind whirled back to his first crush, his second crush, both unrequited. Stephanie—he’d really messed up with her. Cassie. Then his third crush (who probably had no idea he existed). Samantha. And Tam…

“But.” Sidra continued on, snapping him out of his thoughts. “We see love in your future. Someone who will match your wit and bring laughter into your life. You both have already met in passing. But when you come together, both of you will be changed, and meet as strangers.”

Tim stared at the woman. Blinked.

After the bombs they’d just dropped with the smoke and the ominous warnings of ‘future calamity’, a simple _love reading_ seemed almost…trivial? It was more of what he’d expected in the first place when he and the others had stumbled into this tent. But after the other fortunes they’d been told, Tim was admittedly underwhelmed.

“I, uh…thanks.” Tim grimaced.

Sidra squinted, then turned the cup a little, rotating it to the right, then to the left. With a dissatisfied hum, she added, “Well, yes. Either _that,_ or a future of destruction, in which you become a destroyer of lives and liberty, feared by all and loved by _none._ ”

How sad was Tim’s life if the latter seemed more likely than true love?

“That’s contingent,” Sorina protested, shrugging her shoulders as she tossed an annoyed glance towards her sister. Then, to Tim, “ _That_ future is no longer guaranteed, don’t worry.”

He nodded. Once. Then twice. Shakily, he got to his feet, knees suddenly quivering like jell-o, and managed a nod to the two older women. “Thanks. For your time.”

Sidra dipped her chin. Sorina beamed.

“Such a sweet boy! Have a wonderful day, Timothy.” She waved one hand, bangles jangling together as they slipped down her arm. “And remember to come to the show tonight! You won’t want to miss it!”

He was out of the tent in the time it took for him to take a breath again. The sunlight was almost painful after the soothing darkness of the tent, so he squinted around the boardwalk, looking for any sign of Jason or Stephanie. Out of all the bobbing heads and passing tourists, he didn’t spot Steph’s blonde head or Jason’s beat-up leather jacket.

He figured they’d turn up sooner or later. Jason was probably consoling Steph with all the fried funnel cake she could stomach.

Tim slipped his phone from his back pocket, and typed in the passcode frantically.

 **TIM –** we need to talk.

It took a few seconds. Then, 

 **BARBARA –** Timmy!!! Thank &*#.

 **BARBARA –** Are you all ok???

 **BARBARA –** Where’s Dick? He’s not picking up

 **TIM –** all good. one sec.

He switched threads fluidly, fingers flying.

 **TIM –** D, text your gf

 **TIM –** now’s your chance.

 **DICK –** kinda in the middle of something here, Timmy. But I will, scouts honor

 **TIM –** you’re telling me that you’re gonna leave Babs home alone wondering if you made it out ok after a fight with the JOKER because of some circus stuff? she just texted me. Sounds worried, man.

A pause. Then,

 **DICK –** OH $#*^!!! I THOUGHT YOU WERE STILL ON THAT OPERATION DIBS THING

 **DICK –** I DIDN’T EVEN THINK ABOUT THAT

 **DICK –** OH $#*^! SHE SENT *THE MESSAGE* BUT I HAD MY PHONE ON SILENT

 **DICK –** TIMMY IM THE WORST BOYFRIEND EVR

 **TIM –** dude.

 **TIM –** chill

 **TIM –** just let her know you’re ok, then invite her to the show tonight.

 **DICK –** ok

 **DICK –** …

 **DICK –** wait a sec. this IS about your guys’s little scheme isn’t it?

 **TIM –** Text. Your. Girlfriend.

He switched back to Barbara, and scanned over her messages again.

 **TIM –** everything ok back home?

The bubbles that popped up stayed for a good two minutes. Tim raised an eyebrow, and leaned against the boardwalk’s metal railing until he could feel it digging into his spine.

 **BARBARA –** Totally. Bored out of my mind, but everything’s good here.

 **BARBARA –** Where are you guys?

 **TIM –** eh, you’ll see.

 **TIM –** but seriously. Can we talk later?

 **BARBARA –** Of course, Timmy. What about?

 **TIM -** just some stuff. Later when you have time

 **TIM –** you doing ok? Like, really?

 **BARBARA –** fine

 **BARBARA –** Are YOU ok???

 **TIM –** peachy. See you tonight, Babs.

 **BARBARA –** Um. Ok.

 **BARBARA –** See you.

His sister followed her last message with a cluster of heart emojis, and Tim stuffed his phone back into his pocket. Automatically, his eyes went back to scanning the crowd for his siblings. With any luck, Steph was okay, and Jason hadn’t burned anything down yet. But, unwilling to bank on that possibility, Tim stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and set off down the boardwalk. He’d find them eventually, but for now, it would be good to just walk by himself.

He had a lot to think about.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The interrogation had been going great.

Selina had helped Barbara to herd the civilians to safety through what was left of the front doors. They’d been quiet, for the most part, but Kate Kane had paused with her hand on the shattered doorframe, and turned to look Batwoman in the eye.

“Thanks,” she said.

Short. Clipped. It was much more than Barbara would have expected from the woman, so all she could do was nod in return.

Through the wrecked windows, she watched as Kate sprinted behind the police line. A shout tore from her lips, and Detective Renee Montoya surged forwards. With a spin, she caught Kate in her arms, letting out a shriek of laughter. The kind that had been bottled up too long, for fear of never being used again.

It made Barbara smile a little. Then, she turned back to the villainess they had tied to a chair. Her arms were secured behind her back, hopefully to discourage any shooting bolts of electricity, should her abilities make a comeback.

Turns out, once she was bested and stripped of her powers, LiveWire was much more subdued. They’d found out how much she’d been paid to pull off this job, how someone in Gotham had contacted her to ask if she’d lead a group of men to strong-arm the owner of Club Le Jardin.

Selina and Helena kept pressing, playing good cop and scary cop, respectively, while Harley played with a pile of shot glasses behind the bar.

But one text from Tim had been enough to tear Barbara’s attention away.

And then, no sooner had she sent the last message, did a new notification pop up.

 **HUNK WONDER –** Chinese or Italian? No way. I’ll grab us something from Yoshida’s on the way home.

A sigh of relief bubbled out of her throat as she sank onto one of the barstools. Helena looked up, face still twisted into a scowl, and raised one eyebrow curiously. Barbara waved her off, and glanced back down at her phone.

The message was all she needed to feel the weight in her chest subside. It was a system she and Dick had set up years ago. A way to check up on each other in case one of them might have been compromised. If her partner had replied that he wanted Chinese or Italian, or deviated at all from the designated phrasing, then that would mean that someone else had his phone. That he was in danger and needed to be tracked down and rescued immediately.

There was no such place as Yoshida’s, anyway. It was the name of an old contact Bruce had had in Kyoto during their Batgirl and Robin days, and one they figured no one else would even know existed.

Her phone buzzed again.

 **HUNK WONDER –** sorry I took so long, I just barely saw your message

 **HUNK WONDER –** how are you doing? still mad at me?

She typed out a quick response, but her exchange was interrupted by Huntress, who cleared her throat meaningfully. Helena was glaring over at her again when Barbara looked up. She nodded towards LiveWire and snapped, “Are you done, lover-bat? We could use your professional opinion over here.”

Barbara slid the phone back into her belt and stalked towards the villainess. LiveWire looked up at her through her eyelashes, watching carefully like a snake waiting to strike.

“She’s saying that Fahey hired her,” Selina supplied. Barbara could hear the slide of Catwoman’s suit as she crossed her arms over her chest, just as unconvinced as the rest of them were.

Batwoman straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, and leaned down. Once she was face to face with Leslie Willis, she narrowed her eyes. Taking the other woman in. For a long stretch of time, she was utterly still, completely silent. The only sound in the room was the soft clinking of the glasses as Harley stacked them into a pyramid on the bar.

When they passed the five-minute mark, she could tell that the villainess was beginning to crack. Her eyes shifted back and forth, uncomfortably unwilling to meet Batwoman’s piercing white gaze. Her throat bobbed. She licked her lips.

But Barbara kept it up for only a few more silent minutes, her mind working overtime, before she straightened, turned to her partners and said, “It wasn’t Fahey.”

“’Course it was!” Leslie shot up straight, pulling at her bindings.

“How can you be sure?” Huntress asked. Carefully. Precisely. It was likely that she already knew the answer as well, but was willing to help Batwoman with this little power-play.

In response, Barbara set her hands on her hips and said, “Because we’re standing in Fahey’s territory right now. And—”

“He hired me to get protection money!” LiveWire protested.

Barbara stared at her coldly, not saying one word until the villainess slumped back down in her seat, never tearing her gaze from the masked vigilante.

“It’s rude to interrupt, Leslie. Now. As I was saying. This is Fahey’s territory. And oddly enough, Seamus Fahey doesn’t _ever_ rely on anyone but his top lieutenant and his men to collect protection money. He’s a known anti-metahuman and, quite frankly, would rather cut off his own right hand than ask a meta for help. Let alone a meta from out of town.” Barbara turned on her heel, and swayed over towards Huntress, then back towards Selina, pacing deliberately slow. She could feel LiveWire tracing her every move with her dimmed eyes.

“Now, let’s just say that Fahey _did_ manage to swallow his revulsion and hire _you,_ Ms. Willis. Don’t you think this is all a little much for a simple collection?” Barbara waved her arm over the piles of thugs and machine guns around the room. “I sure think so. If you ask me, this _actually_ looks an awful lot like a show of force. One mob boss shouldering in on another boss’s territory. It would definitely explain the amount of destruction—if Fahey really did hire you, he might not be too happy that you levelled his best-earning nightclub, by the way—but it would also explain the timing.” Barbara stopped her pacing and zeroed back in on the seated supervillain. “You picked one #$%% of a time to strongarm another boss, since most of the GCPD presence is on the other side of town, dealing with the Joker. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

LiveWire’s throat bobbed again.

So Batwoman settled the heels of her hands on the armrests of the chair. Narrowed her gaze. Felt, more than saw, Leslie Willis lean back to get as far away from her as she could manage.

“That being said,” Barbara muttered, voice low and grating in her throat, “We’ll ask you the question again. Who sent you here?”

LiveWire’s eyes were wide, and they searched Batwoman’s face for any shred of weakness, any break of character, any chink in her plated armor. But when she didn’t, she slumped a little in her chair.

“If I tell ya, he’s gonna make sure I end up back in Belle Reve.” Her voice was a heavy sigh. “I can’t…I don’t wanna go back there.”

“Then maybe you should have thought twice before killing a cop and blowing up a building,” Barbara shot back. “But if you give me the name—just the name, Leslie—I’ll tell the judge you cooperated. Maybe we could get you a lesser sentence. Maybe a reassignment.”

At that, the villainess’ jaw went slack. “I-I can’t risk it. One more stint in Belle Reve, and they hand me over to Waller. That’s not how I wanna go, Bats.”

At that, Harley looked up, the hand holding an overturned shot glass poised in the air. She swallowed.

“Hey, Batlady,” she called out quietly. “Maybe we can work somethin’ out—”

Barbara never looked away from the villainess’s frightened eyes. “At least if you tell me, you’ll have a chance. You’re going to prison either way, Leslie.”

LiveWire bit her lip. And gave her the name in a hurried whisper.

After the confession, it was a matter of handing LiveWire over to the police, and making themselves scarce. Catwoman and Harley followed the two caped vigilantes to a nearby roof, and watched the GCPD scramble below. It was always a strange feeling, to be removed from the chaos and cacophony of a crime scene, watching from a distance. But it wasn’t a feeling that Barbara disliked.

Helena propped one boot on the edge of the roof, elbow rested on her knee. When she spoke, her voice was gravelly. “So. What’s the plan, O?”

Barbara adjusted her left gauntlet thoughtfully. She could feel the others’ eyes on her, waiting patiently for whatever verdict she had to offer. The fact that everyone else always seemed to look to the Bats for direction was something that had always seemed funny to her. Well, ‘funny’ on the best of days, and ‘tedious’ on the worst. She supposed she had Bruce to blame for building up a reputation of supposed omniscience.

Even so, she _did_ have the workings of a plan knocking around in her brain. She turned her head to glance over at Selina. The woman was watching the skyline, eyes tracing up and down the buildings wistfully. It was almost as if she were searching for a figure all in black swinging between the high-rises.

“Catwoman,” Barbara said carefully, “How far is your place from here?”

Those cool green and silver eyes locked on her. They glowed in the light of the sun that was beginning to dip below the horizon. Barbara could see glints of wicked intelligence there, and was reminded, once again, why Bruce Wayne had fallen for Selina Kyle. Naturally, Catwoman caught on to her line of thinking right away.

“Not far. Ten minutes, as the Bat flies.” She hummed. “I should have something to fit each of you girls, but we should get a move on.”

A line appeared between Helena’s brows. “What is she talking about? Babs?”

Barbara smirked over at her friend. Harley noticed, and caught on just as fast. She started to bounce on the balls of her feet. An excited squeak burst out of her, and she clasped her hands under her chin.  “Ooh! Tell me ya got somethin’ sparkly, Kitty!”

Selina shot a small smile in the clown princess’s direction.

“Just a small change of plans,” Barbara told Helena casually. “Looks like we’re going clubbing after all.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, who else is stoked about Young Justice Outsiders!? I already binged the first three episodes, and I’m in love!!!


	24. Sirens Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> I just wanted to thank you all for your sweet messages and comments! They mean a lot to me, and really helped give me the boost I needed for this chapter!
> 
> I’ve also gotten a lot of people asking me about why I don’t use swear words in this story since I started it. So I just wanted to clear that up! :) The first reason is that I like the aesthetic. You know old comic books that %!#$* out all the language? That’s kinda the look I was going for! But also, on a more serious note, I’m really averse to swearing, and I know several other people who are offended by it. But, since I realize that it wouldn’t be very realistic to have no swearing at all, I made it a bit of a ‘choose-your-own-adventure’ kind of deal. Don’t want to read offensive language? You don’t have to! But if you do? Fill in the blanks with whatever you want! I was hoping this would make everybody happy, but I understand why it might seem a bit weird.
> 
> Just bear with me! :) Thanks for reading guys! I hope you enjoy this chapter! :D

 

 

 **DICK –** how are you doing? still mad at me?

He nibbled his lower lip, almost bouncing in place.

Ever since he’d walked away from Barbara, Dick had felt prickling guilt, needling away at him until his nerves were frayed. The look on his partner’s face had been outraged…and maybe a little hurt, too.

If he had to go back and make the decision again, though, he’d still bench her. What he’d seen at the library was still making his stomach do cartwheels. And he knew—he _knew—_ that if Barbara had been there to see it, smell it, hear it, she would have broken down. Spiraled into a full-blown panic attack. Or worse. He knew it because he knew her…but also because he’d almost done the same thing.

As he watched the dots bubble in the lower corner of the text thread, the anxiety intensified. He’d been too blunt. Too hard. He should have had someone stay with her. Should have offered to be that someone.

 **DREAM GIRL –** I’m just glad you’re safe, Wingnut.

 **DREAM GIRL –** Never could stay mad at you anyway :)

He could kiss her. Dick made a mental note to do just that the moment he saw her again.

 **DICK –** XD well that’s a relief!

 **DICK –** real quick, though. What would you say to a night at the circus???

 **DREAM GIRL –** I’d say save me a seat and I’ll buy the peanuts. ;)

Never had the name Dick had Barbra saved under in his contacts been so appropriate. A smile quirked at the corner of his lips as he felt something warm swell in his chest. It was the same free-falling feeling that he got whenever he jumped off a building or swung from a trapeze. The burst of something fizzling in his veins when he felt the air rush around him, and knew that he was in his element. Right at home.

 **DREAM GIRL –** Sorry babe, I gotta go. Hel’s about to punch a hole in the TV.

 **DREAM GIRL –** Catch you later?

 **DICK –** If you can ;)

 **DREAM GIRL –** XD

 **DREAM GIRL –** I love you, cuteness

 **DICK –** you too

 **DICK –** uh

 **DICK –** adorableness?

 **BARBARA -** XD

“Grayson! What is this one’s name?”

At the sound of a younger Damian’s voice, Dick hurriedly stashed his phone and looked up at the cages that lined the tent wall. Inside each was a lounging, pacing or staring animal that Haly’s Circus used in its performances. Mostly horses, but also tigers, lions, and even a few capuchin monkeys (most of which wandered the circus tent freely, or else hitched rides on the shoulders of the performers). The two Damians and Terry were clustered in front of one cage a few feet down the line, gazing up in awe at the gentle creature inside.

“No way,” Dick breathed. He stepped forward, and let his arm slip between the bars. Almost immediately, the brown and pink speckled trunk wound around his wrist. The feeling that shivered up his arm was almost as familiar as his own name. A handshake.

“Zitka!” he laughed, as the elephant began to raise and lower his arm gently. “Hiya girl!”

The shorter Damian looked up at him with raised eyebrows. “You know this pachyderm, then? You didn’t seem to know the names of the lions…”

“Yeah, we’re buds, aren’t we?” He tapped Zitka’s trunk with his free fingers, and she relinquished her familiar hold. “Practically grew up together.”

Another laugh bubbled out of him as he looked up into the elephant’s watery eyes. Zitka was an Indian Elephant that had been with the circus as long as Dick could remember. He’d been riding her around before he’d even learned how to walk, and his parents always used to cheer him on when he did handstands on her back. Outside of his cousins, and the other circus kids, Zitka had been one of his closest friends. He used to sneak back to her train car to feed her bananas and sing little songs to her. So, naturally, he’d always been one of her favorites.

Damian only nodded, and glanced around at the other cages. “It’s somewhat inhumane to keep these creatures locked up like this, though, don’t you think, Grayson?”

He chuckled, and reached up to pet Zitka’s trunk as it curled out through the bars. His mouth opened to answer, but another voice cut in.

“Haly’s is actually _very_ humane. We treat our animals with the utmost respect. They’re like family.”

Dick turned, and saw Raya stepping towards them. She was already in costume; a glittering blue leotard with matching slippers, and that same feather curling up from her hair. She wore a bright smile as her eyes met his, and it never wavered as she glanced over the rest of his group.

“The animals are just in here while we prep for the show. They have other enclosures that are much more suited to their individual needs. Trust me. Their comfort and care are our first priorities.” Her hand reached up to stroke Zitka’s trunk gently. “It’s why we’ve managed to stay in business all these years, while other circuses have gone under” Raya continued, shrugging one bare shoulder. It sparkled in the light, and Dick noticed she’d coated it with glitter. “Nothing like an animal abuse allegation to drive away an audience, right?”

Damian sniffed, looking Raya up and down. “You’re that har—um… _woman_ who assaulted Grayson.”

“ _Damian,”_ Dick hissed through his teeth. He could feel embarrassment heating his face, but he was glad that the kid had at least steered away from the other word. (Either Alfred or Barbara had heard him say it once, and somehow scared him out of using it again. He suspected Barbara, but knew it was probably Alfred.)

Raya giggled, rolling her eyes. “Um, yep, that’s me.” She waved a hand, cheeks reddening as she looked away. “Heh. I…am never gonna live that down, am I? Everyone’s been teasing me about it, ever since Cleo found that awful magazine on a food-run.”

“Cleo?” Terry asked.

“Bearded lady,” Dick and Raya both responded at once. They shared a wide-eyed glance, then chuckled.

“I wish I could say that I’m completely sorry I did that but…” She trailed off, biting her lip as she blinked up at him. Something in his chest sputtered. “Anyways. How’s Barbara?”

“She’s good.” Dick put up a hand to nudge Zitka’s swinging trunk away from his head, trying to ignore the sudden flush in his face. “Just…hanging around at home. She’ll be at the show tonight, though.”

Raya’s mouth curled into a frown. “Huh. I texted her about lunch today, but she never responded? Probably too busy, anyway,” she waved a hand, turning towards Zitka’s enclosure. “They sent me back to find you, Dickie. We’re about to get started with run-throughs.”

“And who are you again?” Terry asked, folding his arms across his chest.

“Raya Vestri,” Older Damian said, eyes narrowed. His voice was low, almost a growl. When everyone turned to gape at the large man, he started, then shrugged his wide shoulders. “I am…a fan of this circus.”

“Oh.” Raya’s wide gaze lingered on Older Damian for a moment, then on Terry, staring at them like they were a pair of unexpected utility bills in her mailbox. Then she seemed to shake herself out of her stupor and smiled. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you… _friends…_ of Dick’s?”

“Kind of,” Terry admitted. He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, studying Raya up and down. His smile seemed almost forced, but he continued. “I’m a relative of Mr. Wayne’s. Figured I’d stop in and see the old man on my way through town. And this—” He waved a hand over towards his partner, “—is my old buddy and bodyguard, Rupert.”

Older Damian shot Terry a look that clearly said, _‘Later’,_ but managed to send a smile Raya’s way. His seemed a bit forced, too. “Truly unfortunate,” he said, “That Mr. Wayne is absent at this time. I was looking forward to meeting him.”

“Oh, I’m _sure_ we’ll see him sooner or later,” Terry added, then grimaced. Older Damian had stomped hard on his foot.

One of Raya’s eyebrows had risen when Terry started talking and had yet to come down. She nodded, slowly, then looked to Dick.  “Well, we should get a move on. The other flyers are going to want to meet you, and we really should get started with the show order.”

“Sounds good,” Dick said, watching as she spun around and sauntered away.

“If you don’t mind, Grayson,” Older Damian rumbled, drawing everyone’s eyes once again, “You and m—Damian should go on ahead. I need to confer with Mr. McGinnis for a moment.”

Dick hesitated. But nodded. “Whatever you need. Come find us after, alright?”

“Will do,” Older Damian said with a stiff nod.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Alright. Do enlighten me. What the #$%% were you thinking back there?” Damian demanded. “Is this some sort of game to you, McGinnis? Some sort of _Back to the Future_ nonsense?”

Terry leaned against the elephant’s cage, arms crossed, one knee bent. His look was blank. “You know I don’t understand that reference, D.”

 _Teenagers._ Damian could almost feel the blood vessel on his forehead bulge. The _disrespect._ The _sass._ McGinnis was bad enough, but he supposed he should be grateful he didn’t have to deal with the rest of the motley pubescent crew. Thank goodness. He wasn’t sure he could handle more than one griping teenager at the moment… How anyone put up with this sort of attitude was completely beyond—

“You forget,” he snapped, “That our family is comprised of _detectives._ They are some of the most brilliant minds in the world, and you keep dropping little details like breadcrumbs! McGinnis, sooner or later, they _will_ put two and two together, and when that happens, the timeline as we know it could be drastically changed.”

“Look, it just slipped out, okay? Jeez.” Terry snapped. His expression darkened. “It’s just so…weird. Being in at any point in time without _him.”_

“Yes.” Damian pinched the bridge of his nose, and paced back and forth in front of the elephant’s cage. He could admit that the boy was right. This point in time had been…challenging for his family. But regardless, he needed to be careful what he said—they _both_ did—because in his experience, there was nearly always someone listening in. The tent walls may as well have had ears as big as a pachyderm’s.

“Regardless,” he continued. “That’s no excuse for—”

What happened next could only be described as a _blur_. Damian’s breath was knocked from his lungs as something swept him off his feet into the air. He was vaguely aware of the tent wall ripping as he, McGinnis, and some other individual sped straight through it. His insides lurched as they were sped upwards, higher and higher. The bright light of the setting sun flooded his senses as they were flown through the air above the Big Top, descending over the lapping waves until their feet were allowed to touch the sand. They’d landed below the boardwalk. Safe underneath the shelter of boards and hidden amongst a forest of wooden pillars.

Damian bent nearly double, trying to regain the breath he’d lost. McGinnis was in a similar state, panting beside him.

And then, Damian was squashed in a crushing embrace.

“Damian! Oh, thank Jor-El, it’s really _you!”_

At the sound of the man’s voice, Damian froze. He could feel his jaw go slack. His heart skipped several beats, and once again, he found that the air seemed to have been knocked from his lungs.

He pulled out of the newcomer’s arms, and gazed up at his shockingly blue eyes. Slowly, ever so slowly, Damian reached up, cupping the man’s jaw in the palm of his hand. There was a bit of stubble there, which was definitely unusual. Whatever had possessed him to skip out on shaving…? He was usually so diligent…

When Damian regained his voice—and his senses—he rasped,

“Beloved?”

Jon beamed down at him. Then laughed. His large fingers wrapped around Damian’s, and he shot the shorter man a look of total awe and delight.

“I cannot believe this,” Damian breathed. “How were you able find us?”

Jon’s eyes twinkled. “I’ll always come for you, Dami.”

“Grooooss,” Terry groaned, pulling himself upright. He rolled his shoulders, then his neck, and grimaced. “Is this the part where you two get all mushy?”

Damian smiled up at the Kryptonian man. Jon was looking back at him like he’d never expected to see his face again. He had to admit, for a time, he himself had been plagued with similar thoughts. Damian traced his thumb along Jon’s cheekbone. “How very homophobic of you, McGinnis,” he mumbled.

Two feminine voices cut through the air.

“Nah, Terry just hates mushy stuff, didn’t you hear him?”

“Ugh. Can’t say I disagree. Have you _met_ my parents?”

Damian glanced over, and his hand dropped from Jon’s face. He turned towards the two girls materializing out of the shadows, their cloaking discarded like heavy coats. The first was the taller of the pair, dressed in a suit quite similar to McGinnis’s. Her decals, however, were a purply fuchsia color that Brown would most certainly approve of, at a future point in time. A shimmering cape draped over her shoulders, and Damian could see the waves licking the wooden pillars through the nearly-sheer material. Just behind her temples, two bat ears spiked from her cowl.

The other girl was shorter, but not by much. Her uniform was much closer to his own in design. Lightweight carbon fiber-blended armor, sleek and dark, along with a circuit mask that allowed space to let her long dark ponytail flow freely. Her chosen decal color, however, was turquoise, and it glowed in the shadows under the boardwalk. At her side, she tapped a sleek escrima stick impatiently. The eagle on her chest flickered with her heartbeat.

Both girls reached up to press two fingers to the sides of their circuit masks, and the dark material flickered away, revealing their faces.

“I’m tellin’ you, D,” Maxine Gibson said, putting a fist on her hip as she smirked at them, “You gotta keep the PDA to a minimum around Terry. He’s got such a weak stomach.”

The other girl crossed her arms below the sleek spiked symbol on her chest, matching Max’s expression almost exactly as she sang out, “You mean unless he’s making out with _Dana.”_

Terry scowled. “Alright, alright. You done?” He rushed over, pulling both of them into a tight hug that made their eyes widen. The girl in blue let out a strangled wheeze, and Max grunted. “I swear, if I wasn’t so happy to see you guys—”

“Batgirl, Nightingale,” Damian snapped. Then, more gently, “Superman. What are you doing here? How did you get to us?”

Jon reached down, and twined his fingers with Damian’s. “Well, _Nightshade,_ when you disappeared, Oracle and Maven noticed a spike in…some sorta energy. They didn’t really explain it, and there was too much techno jargon for me to follow. But once they locked onto the time travel robot’s signature, they notified the League…and the Family. We’ve been searching for you for _months_ now. We were starting to worry that we’d never find out where you landed.”

“Impossible.” Damian frowned. “We’ve only been here a few weeks.”

Nightingale patted Terry’s arm desperately. Another pained wheeze leaked past her lips. “O-okay, Terr,” she croaked. “Easy on the ribs, pal.”

“They’re all worried sick,” Jon continued, squeezing Damian’s hand carefully. He knew that if the Kryptonian wanted to, he could break every one of the miniscule bones in his fingers and palm. Even by accident. He admired Jon’s restraint. “Between your disappearances, and everything that’s going on in Gotham—”

“Nothing’s changed?” Terry asked solemnly, dropping his sisters. Both let out gasps of relief.

“ _Slag it,_ Terr, the servos!” Nightingale protested.

Max’s hand fluttered to her chest. “You gotta remember your own strength.”

“Nothing’s _changed?”_ Terry repeated, enunciating each individual syllable as he cast a meaningful glance at the girls. They started, gazes wide and unguarded as they slid from Terry, to Damian and Jon, then back to Terry.

Nightingale’s shoulders dropped. “No,” she whispered. “Nothing’s changed.”

“He’s killed over two thousand since you and Nightshade dropped off the radar,” Max added softly. Tears pricked in her eyes as she looked down at the sand and drying bits of seaweed at their feet. “City’s in a state of emergency.”

Silence fell over the group like a blanket of fog. The only sounds were the soft whispers of the lapping waves, and the far away noises of gulls and happy carnival-goers. Damian could feel his heart pounding in his ears as he looked over his three protégés. Well, technically, Batgirl was under Brown’s and Cain’s tutelage, and McGinnis was only half his responsibility. But Nightingale was his partner, and she was staring up at him with tears in her blue eyes.

She swallowed. Hard. Then said, softly, “There’s something else you should know.”

“MG, don’t you dare,” Max hissed. “That can wait until we get them home. Right now we just need to—”

“He got Minnie,” Nightingale blurted. Her tears bubbled over, and she cupped a gloved hand over her mouth.

Damian froze, and he noticed Terry stiffen. “What?”

Batgirl and Nightingale exchanged a pained look, and Damian spotted tears in both their eyes. Nightingale turned her watery gaze on him and said, “He got into the Cave.”

“No,” Terry breathed.

“Not possible.” Damian’s free fist clenched at his side so hard that it began to shake. The pounding in his ears intensified. “We changed the passcodes and security protocols. There’s no way that he would have—”

“Well, he did,” Max clipped. Her face fell. “Everyone was out on patrol. Except Athena. _Minnie._ She was running comms on a mission for me and Les when…he got in.” She seemed to choke on the last few words, and Nightingale put up a hand to lay on her shoulder. Max took a steeling breath, ran a few fingers through her neon hair, then managed, “We think Joker was looking for the Big Boss, but he was out with the League, looking for leads on _you guys._ And when he saw that Minnie was the only one there, he…he killed her. They think…they think it was a crowbar, but we don’t know…there was too much…” Max hiccupped, and looked away. Out to sea.

“No,” Terry repeated. His feet stroked through the sand as he paced back and forth. Fingers clawed through his hair. He tipped his chin up to stare at the faded, barnacle-speckled boards above their heads. An agonized groan dragged out of him. When he spoke, his voice was tinged with disbelief. And outrage. “No. No.. _._ how could he? His own _daughter…”_

Damian swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat. “And Oracle? Maven?” He could hear his voice fracture on the last name. “How are they taking it?”

Nightingale bit her lip, looking pained, so it was Batgirl who responded.

“O’s pretty broken up. They both are,” she said, almost in a whisper. “But Maven…I mean, Minnie was her... And…she hasn’t really been the same since it happened.”

Damian nodded curtly. This was terrible news, indeed, and he certainly felt a pang of loss on Maven’s behalf. The woman was one of the most brilliant people he’d ever had the privilege to encounter over the course of his life. Which, naturally, was saying something, considering the people he chose to call his family. And he was proud to call Maven a part of that family, not only by marriage or apprenticeship, but by sheer _belonging._ She had more than earned her way into their ranks, and Damian knew how important family was to her.

Which was why losing her daughter Minerva had to be a suffocating blow.

When she had been born, little Minnie had taken ill with a rare disease. The infection had racked her tiny body, flinging her to the brink of death. For several weeks, the entire Wayne family had worried that the tiny infant would not be able to pull through. They had come together to pull whatever strings they could, utilizing the most state-of-the-art medical technology and some of the most skilled doctors the world had to offer.

And Minerva had lived. But the disease had permanently taken away her eyesight.

But, true to her family’s legacy, little Minnie became stronger in other ways. She grew to be every bit as brilliant than her parents, her aunts, uncles, and grandfather. If not more so. They aided her however they could, and let her hone and cultivate her technological prowess. She trained under her mother, Maven, and under Maven’s mentor, Oracle. But every Bat could agree that, given time, Minnie—or Athena, as she came to be known—would have surpassed all of them.

And now she was gone.

Fourteen was far too young to die.

“No,” Terry snarled. He turned in the sand so fast that an arc of it sprayed up, and glared out at the shimmering ocean. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way. We could have—”

“Terry,” Batgirl warned.

Damian raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about? _It wasn’t supposed to be this way?”_

The younger three flinched at his tone. Even Jon shifted his stance. But Damian couldn’t bring himself to care as realization began to fester inside of him, growing with every second he studied McGinnis’s body language. Guilt. Anger. And more.

And all at once, he knew.

“That night I found you on the Hannity Building.” Damian took a step forward, fists clenched so hard at his sides that they shook. “Messing around with Gold’s robot. You…all of this…you did this all _on purpose.”_

Terry tipped his chin up, jaw squared. “You weren’t supposed to be there, D.”

“Well I was. And I’m _glad_ of it, too, because all of this tampering—!”

“D, listen!” Nightingale pleaded. She stepped forward, arms stretched out in a placating gesture. But Damian would not be soothed, and this issue could not simply be brushed aside. He whirled on his protégé.

“You,” he snarled, and Nightingale shrunk back, wincing. “You were in on this, too, weren’t you? Your parents entrusted you to me, Marie, and I thought I taught you better than this. But—”

“We were _all_ in on it!” Max shouted.

The two adults gazed at her with wide eyes and slack jaws. Terry and Marie only nodded.

“It’s true,” Nightingale said softly. “Terry, Max, Me, Leslie, Archer, Melanie, Matt, Thomas…M-Minnie…”

“All of you,” Damian repeated in a stunned whisper.

“Yeah, all of us!” Terry snapped. “We planned it for months!”

Damian felt Jon stiffen at his side, and he glowered at McGinnis with all of the heat and venom that constituted a formidable Bat Glare. “Why.”

“Because Joker kills more and more people every slagging day, and no one’s done a &*#% thing about it. Not the Government, not the police. The League doesn’t do a &*#% thing, either, and _you—”_ He jammed a finger in Damian’s direction, stiff and accusing. Pointed right at the symbol on his chest. Tears brimmed in the boy’s eyes as his face twisted with anguish. “ _None of you_ have the guts to do anything about it!”

“We knew you never would,” Max added, her voice softer than Terry’s, but still just as stony. “Because you’re all too close to this. To _him._ You all seem to think that any day, he’s just gonna snap out of it and go back to being your brother, but _he’s not._ What he is now…there’s no fixing it.”

“So we decided…we decided to send someone back in time to stop it. Before the original Joker could get to him. We figured it was that…or killing him. And no one wanted—” Marie’s voice was small, her shoulders hunched. Damian regretted shouting at her, but now was probably not the time for apologies. Because Terry chose that moment to explode.

“But you _slagged it all to #$%%!_ Minnie’d just sent me the coordinates! I’d _just_ put them in. And then _you_ had to butt in!” Terry was almost screaming now. Thankfully, it was too cold for beachgoers, and the carnival guests over their heads could hear nothing above the sound of their own revelry. “The robot was only calibrated for _one!_ With _you,_ it didn’t know what to do, so it sent us back randomly! You ruined _everything, D! We missed our chance because of you! Minnie is DEAD BECAUSE OF YOU!”_

Damian stepped forward. Swung his arm. Hit his partner right across the jaw.

Terry hit the sand with a grunt. Leaving Damian to stand above him, fist still raised, and horror beginning to pierce through the fog of anger around him. Terry dragged a hand under his nose, coming up with red.

“McGinnis,” Damian gasped, fist shaking as it lowered. “I’m sorry. I—”

Terry flew at him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The second the lights flipped on in Selina Kyle’s apartment, Barbara knew they were screwed.

Selina Kyle had acquired a dragon’s hoard of valuable items during her…’less than legitimate’ days. Most of it, she’d sold off to the highest bidder, earning enough to fund her lavish lifestyle and secure her an apartment in one of the nicest buildings in Gotham. (Of course, it never hurt when your fiancé was Bruce Wayne himself.)

It was spacious. It was modern. It was luxurious. Floor to ceiling windows that looked out on the Gotham City skyline—that was just now beginning to flicker to life as the sun set—light wood-paneled flooring, marble countertops (Barbara doubted it was real. Selina was well off but not _that_ well off, and landlords in this part of town were known for doing the bare minimum.). The décor consisted of rich oil paintings depicting landscapes or—of course—noble-looking felines, and anything else that Selina had acquired over the years but had grown too attached to part with.

The furniture was comfy-looking and in good taste. But the woman lounging across the plush white setee was decidedly out of place.

When Harley saw her, she shrieked, “Pammy!”

Ivy’s eyes widened slightly. “Harl—"

The clown princess slammed into Pamela Isley, arms curled around the green woman’s neck, and practically vibrating with excitement.

“Ooh! I can’t believe you’re here!” Harley squeezed Ivy so tight that her eyes bulged. “I thought I toldja ta wait at home!”

“Harl,” Ivy wheezed. “Can’t—”

“Ooh, right. Sorry, Pam-a-lamb!”

She dropped Ivy, who sagged against the setee with a weary sigh. Barbara noted Pamela’s appearance suddenly, and had to resist the urge to gape. Poison Ivy was usually clad in twisting vines and leaves with lives of their own; plants playing pretend as clothing. But now, she was dressed in a black parka that had been hastily thrown over a thin cotton sundress. Fur-lined snow boots peaked out below the long hem, even though Gotham had yet to see a single snowflake. Dark brown circles hung underneath her eyes, and even her skin, usually vibrantly healthy and green, was now a deep orangey color, like a bad spray tan. Her hair, too, was a dull auburn where it had once been a shocking scarlet.

Essentially, Barbara had recognized the woman as Pamela Isley the second she and the others had stepped across Selina’s threshold, but she never would have recognized her as Poison Ivy.

“Where have you _been?”_ Pamela demanded, glaring up at Harley pointedly. “I was up for _hours,_ Harl. I thought she’d hauled you off to Arkham by now.” Ivy tossed a poisonous glare in Batwoman’s direction, and Barbara crossed her arms.

“I could haul _you_ off to Arkham,” she grumbled. Then strode past the group of women towards Selina’s room.

Thankfully, the room wasn’t hard to find. Many a night during her Batgirl days, she had stumbled over the railing of Selina’s balcony with a gaping wound or dislocated joint. On the nights when Selina was ‘off-duty’, the two of them would chat over coffee or cocoa while they patched Barbara up. When the Catwoman wasn’t in her den, Barbara knew to look for the first aid kit in the bathroom cabinet. As a result, Batwoman knew this place like the back of her hand.

The others followed her to Selina’s lavish walk-in closet, and stared as she threw open the doors and stepped inside. The interior was lined with racks of everything from cashmere sweaters to evening gowns. Shoes were hidden at the edges of the floor, and jewelry was kept on a lamplit vanity nestled in between a collection of mink coats and pencil skirts. Selina offered up no protest as Barbara started rifling through the dresses, and instead moved to help her out.

Helena snorted, leaning on the doorframe. “Much as I’d _love_ to zip myself up into something ridiculously low-cut…shouldn’t we be asking how Little Miss Petunia got in here?”

She jabbed a thumb towards Ivy, who scowled. She wrapped herself a little tighter in the parka, and Harley patted her arm gently. “It’s okay, Pammy,” she stage-whispered. “That’s just Hunty. She gets really grumpy when…no, never mind. She’s always grumpy.”

Helena actually growled.

“Ivy has a standing invitation. The ladies of Gotham’s underworld have an… _understanding_ , after all,” Selina crooned, lifting out a sparkling gold and black dress. It caught the light of the closet’s lamps, sending a thousand pinpricks of light in every direction. Harley’s face was covered in glittery freckles, and her eyes lit up like beacons.

“Dibs on that one?” she asked hopefully.

Selina’s smile was triumphant. “Sure thing, kiddo.”

“An understanding, huh?” Barbara clipped. She snatched up a lacy mermaid-cut that was a deep, purply indigo color. “Here you go, Hel.”

Helena accepted the dress with a drawn expression. “What kind of ‘understanding’ are we talking about?”

Selina chose out a blue sheath dress for herself. It was so dark, it was nearly black, and was studded with diamonds that gave the entire thing the appearance of a clear night sky. She held it up in front of the vanity mirror, admiring the reflection, and said, nearly purring, “Oh, well, you know the old saying. ‘Scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours?”

“Yeah?” Barbara swept aside several of the dresses, looking for just the right one. Her eyes darted over to Pamela, who was still standing uncomfortably off to the side.

Ivy sniffed, and glanced at Selina with one eyebrow raised. “If you’re implying that me staying here for the night is my permission to go with you ladies on whatever little scheme Bratwoman over there cooked up—”

“Watch it, Ives,” Barbara muttered hotly under her breath.

“—then my answer’s _no._ I’ll find some other place to hole up, thank you very much.”

Harley frowned. “How come? Isn’t our place okay?”

Ivy started, then reached for Harley’s hand. Barbara raised an eyebrow as she watched the women’s fingers interlace. Pamela shot Harley a weary glance, and said, “He burned the place down this morning.”

“ _What?”_ Harley exploded. Her pigtails bobbed in the air incredulously. She dropped Ivy’s hand and paced towards the end of the closet and back, dragging her feet. She huffed, scratching absently at her arms and glared up at the ceiling. “That piece of _$#*^!_ We had a deal! When I get my hands on ‘im, I’ll—”

“Joker?” Selina asked softly, already easing the zipper of her catsuit down.

“Of course,” Ivy said dryly. “Who else? He caught me right in the middle of breakfast with a tanker full of gasoline and a lighter. I only _barely_ made it out, but my babies…” She trailed off, lower lip quivering.

Harley paused her indignant temper tantrum and was at Ivy’s side in a second, cooing gently in her ear.

Helena—now stripped out of her uniform—pulled the lacy bodice up over her chest. The dress was shoulder-less and clung to her curves flatteringly. As Huntress ran her hands appreciatively down her sides over the soft material, she met Ivy’s eyes carefully. “I’m sorry,” she said gently, “I know what it’s like to lose your home.”

“But we can offer you a way to get back at him,” Barbara snapped. The other four women looked up at her as she made her own selection, draping the dress over her arm carefully. She glared down at the bright red monstrosity, and then up at Poison Ivy. “The information we’re going to get tonight should get us even closer to finding the Joker. And once we do…”

Selina was watching her curiously. Barbara ignored her probing gaze with a small scowl, and stepped out of the closet.

“If you ladies will give me a moment, I need to change.”

Once Barbara was out of the closet, the others glanced around at each other carefully.

“So,” Harley said. “Anybody else notice how when Batlady gets mad, her eyes go all green? It happened in the Garden Club. What’s with that, huh?”

Helena frowned. “Club _Le Jardin,_ Harley. And…she did it again, just now.”

Huntress sent an accusatory glower Ivy’s way, and the latter raised her hands in the air.

“I haven’t released pollen in _months._ This &*#% time of the year hits my system too hard.” Her hands drifted down like falling autumn leaves and she glanced over at Selina, who had shimmied into her own glittery gown. Then, softly, she added, “Sel, do you really think…we could find him?”

Selina spun around. “Do me up?” she asked. Then when Harley leapt forward to help with the zipper, Catwoman sighed heavily and said, “Batwoman— _Barbara—_ has been working on his case for over a year. If she says that we’ll get the intel we need on him tonight, then…I trust her.”

“Babs has been wrong before,” Helena pointed out. She needed no help with her zipper, arms craning expertly behind her back as she continued, “Especially when it comes to _him._ Believe me, she’s too close to that creep to keep a clear head. You should’ve seen her today, ‘Lina. Harley and I stopped her before she could go full panic-mode, but it was a close thing. I mean—” Her voice dropped into a heavy whisper. “This thing he sent her? It was his _face._ Or some other poor schmuck’s painted up to look like his, but…that’s still a _human face_ he sent her in a box!”

“Oh, so is that what that was?” Ivy slipped out of the parka. She laid it gently over the vanity’s plush chair, and looked Selina square in the eye. “Well, he’ll be that much easier to find if he’s running around town without that stupid grin. But if there’s a chance…that monster’s tormented Harls for far too long. Count me in.”

Harley—already dolled up in her dress—squealed and squeezed Ivy tightly.

“Well, that’s perfect, Ives,” Selina crooned, “Cause I have the most exquisite little number, just for you.”

She handed over a hangar with a long-sleeved velvet gown the color of a Christmas tree. It looked warm and very… _Ivy._ Pamela accepted it gratefully, and hesitantly began to change. “Where do you get all of these, Sel?” she sighed.

Selina waved a dismissive hand. Her smile was coy, and maybe a little smug, too. “You remember, Ives, my little fling with Bruce Wayne? Well, he used to drag me to all sorts of society bashes. And the women there, well, they were a bunch of shrewish trophy wives and society brats. Looked down their noses at me, spread all sorts of nasty rumors. I, of course, said nothing, but…on my ‘errands’, I’d pay their homes—and closets—a quick visit.”

A sound of approval rumbled in Helena’s throat.

Harley, meanwhile, had wandered over to the jewelry displays on the vanity. She held a pair of sparkly diamond earrings up in the mirror, and stuck out her tongue. “Say,” she mused, deciding to try the earrings on, “What’s with Babsy goin’ ta change in the other room? She doesn’ really strike me as bein’ the shy type. Whaddaya say, Hunty?”

Helena snatched up and fastened on a necklace that was made up of dozens upon dozens of tiny silver links cascading in a triangular waterfall down her throat. With a few twists (and a few bobby pins courtesy of their host) she had her hair pinned up into the beginnings of an elegant updo.

“Hunty?” Harley asked again. “Do you know?”

Huntress continued to play with her hair, but met Harley’s gray eyes in the mirror. “It’s because she doesn’t like anyone seeing her scars.”

“So what?” Harley held out both her bare arms and shimmied her shoulders, showing off her own marks proudly. “We all got ‘em! Look at you! You’ve got twice as many as me, even! And Pammy, you’ve got a tonuvem’ too!”

Ivy hummed in agreement, sliding her arms with a sigh into the warm velvet sleeves. Helena pressed her lips together in a firm line, fingers still entwined in the mess of her hair. So it was Selina’s soft voice that said,

“Oh, Harley, sweetie. She means her _other_ scars.”

“What other scars?”

“The ones from her…accident,” Selina said, reaching for a diamond necklace. “And from the surgeries that helped her walk again.”

The door slid open, and when Barbara stepped back inside, everyone’s jaws dropped. Helena’s face went red, and she swallowed hard. “Good grief, Babs,” she muttered, scandalized, “You lookin’ to step out on Dick tonight, or something?”

Barbara was in a floor-length evening gown the color of ripe cherries. It was a riskier piece that Selina had acquired from a particularly unpleasant debutante, but it fit Barbara like a glove. A very thin, very tight, very hole-ridden glove. Its halter neckline consisted of two bejeweled pieces of cloth that wound up and around her neck, like a lover leaning in for a kiss. It left almost all of her ample chest and toned stomach on display. (Selina couldn’t help but notice that the fabric did manage to cover the small scar next to Barbara’s belly button, but not the large bandage taped over her shoulder.) Panels cut from the sides of the gown displayed the pale skin of her waist, where someone might lay their hand as a request for a little risqué fun. Two slits ran up the sides of the skirt, all the way to the waist, baring Barbara’s toned legs in flashes as she made her way across the closet towards them.

“Not quite,” was all she said, as she reached down to plug in the curling iron she’d brought with her. The backless dress showed off her scarred back, all the way down past her shoulder-blades and to the curve of her lower back. Really, Selina thought, it was the kind of dress that would take a miracle to stay in place. It was something she never would have chosen for Barbara. But she had to admit, she could already begin to see the reason behind the provocative attire.

And wasn’t that just like the Bats, to always have their reasons?

“Besides,” Barbara continued, pinching a lock of her auburn hair between two fingers. She lifted the iron, and a wisp of steam curled into the air as she spun it in her hand. “Last I checked, the way I dress has nothing to do with my boyfriend and everything to do with the case I’m working.”

“Well, then, who are you planning to seduce in that thing?” Helena demanded. Her hair was done, and now she crossed her arms over her chest, looking very elegant and very ticked off at the same time.

Barbara let the freshly curled lock drop to her bare shoulder. One of her eyebrows lifted. “We’ll just have to see how the night goes. I have a very special assignment for _you,_ though, Hel.”

“Oh-ho, I can’t _wait,”_ Huntress grumbled.

Selina snatched up a cosmetics jar from the vanity’s drawer, and held it aloft. “Anyone who needs covering up, use this.”

Barbara accepted it gratefully, and spooned out a generous portion with two fingers. The others watched in amazement as the silver cream disappeared where she rubbed it over her shoulder—and so did the pale, taped bandage that had been there a moment before.

“Specially designed by Zatanna,” Barbara told them, “It’ll blend with any skin tone, and hides the scars almost perfectly. It’s not _extremely_ waterproof, though, so you’ll need to be careful.”

They passed it around in silence. In the places that were harder to reach, they helped each other. The cream was cool to the touch, and tingled a little when it was absorbed into their skin. Selina was particularly fond of the concealer, since she had many scars of her own from years on the streets. Barbara and Stephanie were always asking to borrow it as well, and she was always happy to oblige.

Selina moved to help Barbara with one spot on her lower back that was left uncovered by the bright fabric. This scar was pale and pink—circular shaped and about half the size of Selina’s fist. It curved inwards, like a small crater, and it hurt Selina’s heart to look at it.

Barbara craned her neck, glancing back at Selina with a pained expression.

 _Don’t mention it, please,_ her blue eyes seemed to say.

So Selina scooped out a generous portion of the concealing cream, and rubbed it gently into the skin of Barbara’s back. The scar disappeared almost completely, leaving just one spot that was barely paler than the skin around it.

After that, they did each other’s hair, consulted each other on jewelry, and dabbed on each other’s makeup. They laughed and bantered like a group of girl friends going out for a night on the town. Almost like two of them weren’t notorious Gotham City Rogues, two of them weren’t the masked vigilantes responsible for bringing them down, and the other wasn’t a morally gray individual who fell somewhere in between.

They were just Pamela Isley, Harleen Quinzel, Helena Bertinelli, Barbara Delphi, and Selina Kyle.

And when the limousine Selina had rented arrived? Well, needless to say, they all stepped out in style.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It only took Dick a few minutes to change into a blue practice-leotard, and a few extra seconds to be grateful that Jason was far, _far_ away from the Big Top. He knew his little brother, just like he knew that the moment he saw Dick wearing a leotard, he would bust out laughing. Probably ask him why he was wearing a ‘onesie’. Probably wouldn’t ever let him hear the end of it.

He puffed out a soft breath of laughter, and stepped back out into the main part of the tent. Right there, perched up near the top of the bleachers, he could see Damian waiting patiently for him to change. Just like he’d promised.

Dick raised a hand to catch his youngest brother’s attention, but Damian didn’t react. His steely gaze was fixed on the poles of the circus tent that held the trapeze. He was watching Raya and a few of the other aerialists do their thing. Flipping, flying, twisting, gliding. Dick had to resist the urge to run and join them. Instead, he picked his way up the stands, and plopped down onto the seat next to Damian.

“Hey,” he said, nudging the kid’s shoulder with an elbow. He tipped his chin to the acrobats sailing through the air. “Pretty cool, huh?”

Damian never looked away from the flyers. “This is where you grew up.”

Dick started. Then gave a short nod. “Yeah, Dami. It is.” He chuckled a little. “In fact, I was only a few years younger than you when I walked my first tightrope.”

His brother gave him a vague nod, still looking away. The spotlights from the center ring were lit, as the show technicians ran their final checks before opening night, and they cast most of Damian’s face in shadow.

“You lost your parents here.”

Dick swallowed. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“How old were you?”

“Damian,” Dick said softly. “Why the sudden interest?”

By way of reply, the kid crossed his arms over his stomach and leaned forward a little. His jaw clenched. Unclenched. “Todd told me what happened to them. A few days ago.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Damian seemed to hesitate. “The man…who killed your family. Why did he do it?”

“Why did he—? He was a mob man, Dami. He wanted money from Haly’s, and Jack told him no. He…sabotaged the trapeze. To get back at him.” Dick felt something in his chest twist painfully. Put a hand up to the spot, and felt his uneven heartbeat in his chest. He thought of Tony Zucco. That shifty-eyed gaze, watching Dick with a greasy smirk while his mom dragged him away from the gangster and his cronies ( _“Jack and your Tati just needs to have a talk with him,_ înger. _Why don’t you come and show me your handstands?”_ ). The blue toothpick he always kept clenched between his yellowed teeth. How he always rolled a ‘lucky coin’ over his knuckles with practiced precision. He’d asked Dick once, on one of his visits to the circus, if he wanted to have a closer look. That time, Magda dragged him away, sending a poisonous glower in Zucco’s direction.

“But why?” Damian’s fists clenched. “Grayson, we see mob ‘messages’ every other day. Only very rarely are children involved. And—”

Damian kept speaking, but the sound of his voice was almost a million miles away. Dick watched Raya and the others soar over the center ring, calling out tips and critiques for each other. The scene seemed to melt away, until the people he saw flying through the air were the streamlined black, red and gold-clad members of the Flying Graysons. His mother and aunt Karla—laughing as they subtly competed with each other. His father and Uncle Richard, matching each other’s movements exactly. They’d grown up together, after all. Started as a brother act.

There was Magda, doing a side-planche as her brother streaked past her. Johnny was a blur of speed, the quickest member of the Flying Graysons, followed closely by his aunt, Marie. They’d all thought, given time, Dick would grow to be just as fast and efficient as Johnny had. They all knew he had the talent and the form. But—

Sure enough, his memories always led here. His family all stacked together on the trapeze. His mom’s hands outstretched for his father’s—face aglow like a full harvest moon. And then a soft _pingpingpingping,_ and the trapeze fell away. Leaving the Flying Graysons to fall to the earth, bodies twisting through the air as they tumbled towards the earth, their wide-eyed screams drowned out by the crowd’s horrified uproar.

Dick could still hear the sounds of his aunt and uncle, cousins, and parents hitting the ground. The snap of bone that reached his ears as he slid down the ladder. Raced, arms stretched out, towards his _familie._ Standing in the blood that pooled on the sand as they lay scattered around him, limp and twisted like broken marionettes. Never to fly again.

His knees hit the dust. His fingers dug into the sand as he stared at his mother’s glassy-eyed gaze. She’d been gone the second she hit the ground. But Dick hadn’t known that. His small voice called out,

“ _Mami? Mami?”_

His mother didn’t answer. A man was shouting nearby, telling the crowd to stay back, get back, someone call 911. Dick turned his head. Looked at John Grayson, who was facedown, arms and legs crooked at odd angles.

_“T-tati?”_

A hand on his shoulder. Large and warm, just like his father’s had once been. There was a voice in his ear, even as he continued to stare at his family, gaze never leaving their shattered remnants.

_“Richard? Are you Richard Grayson?”_

Dick recognized the sound of his name, even though it sounded different. Rough, clipped, and _wrong._ A hard ‘Rich-erd’ instead of the musical way his family said it. He swallowed. Mouth so dry, his tongue felt like sandpaper. Then nodded.

_“Richard, my name is Bruce Wayne. These doctors are going to help your family, alright?”_

Another nod. A swarm of paramedics in yellow reflective jackets swarmed the scene like bumblebees, stooping to check for survivors. But Dick found he couldn’t move, couldn’t even remember to breathe in. He was rooted in place, everything but his family and the man’s— _Bruce’s—_ voice drowned out by a haze of shock. As his heart stuttered in his chest, Bruce said,

_“I’m going to take you home with me. Just while they sort everything out. Is that alright, Richard?”_

Home. He knew that word. Home was the circus tent. The sound of the crowd screaming out their adulation as the roar of applause ripped through the air. Home was the smell of animals and food, and the warmth of his bed in the Flying Graysons train car. The air in his face and the rush in his chest when he let go of the bar, only to be caught by a family member’s grasping hands. Home was Mami, Tati, Mătuşă Karla, Unchi Richard, Magda and Johnny.

 _“I can…can not…l-leave…”_ He grasped at the English words as they slipped from his mind, sliding away to make room for the frantic Romani words that filled his head. As it started to sink in. The blood. The gore. The staring, unseeing gazes.

They…were gone. His _familie._ And…they weren’t coming back to him, were they?

 _“Richard. Please. I know that it’s hard to lose the people you love._ Believe _me. But I promise that I’ll do everything in my power to make it right. Please, just—”_

He whirled on the strange man. This _Bruce Wayne._ He had the same dark hair as Tati and Unchi Richard, and eyes were almost as blue, but the similarities ended there. His skin was lighter. His build more square. He wasn’t as old as Dick’s father, but he must have been close.

Dick’s mind whirled as he turned the man’s English words over in his mind, desperate to decipher their meaning. The vague understanding that this man was here to take him away, from his family and his circus and his _home,_ struck Dick like a blow to the gut. He shook off the man’s hand with a jerk of his shoulder. Bruce tried to replace it, but Dick’s hand slapped it away.

 _“Lăsa-mă în pace!”_ He scooted back, away from the strange American man who wanted to take him away. He’d been warned about strangers. Tony Zucco had been a stranger, and look what had happened. “ _Du-te de aici! DU-TE DE AICI!”_

A pained look came over Bruce’s face as he reached out for Dick. “ _Richard. It’s all going to be okay. I promise. I know you want me to go away. But I can’t. Not when I can help you. You’ll understand that, one day.”_

Dick choked on his own ragged breathing. Then, in a soft, awed voice, _“Đali džane romane?”_

Bruce smiled a little, then. A sad, soft smile, but one that made Dick feel a little less like a cornered animal. “ _Da, cikno.”_

And once he realized that the man spoke his language, Dick lunged forward. Wrapped his arms around the man’s chest and buried his face in his t-shirt. All the while, he babbled in Romani. Sobbing and repeating over and over that he didn’t understand, where were they going to take Mami and Tati, why did this happen, this wasn’t supposed to happen…

Bruce had startled at first, but then relaxed, and wrapped his own arms around Dick’s shoulders.

_“I promise you, Richard. These next few days will be the hardest. It may even seem like the world has ended. But I promise you won’t have to face any of this alone.”_

Dick sniffled. Looked up at his future mentor’s face.

 _“Dick,”_ he said softly. _“Mă numesc Dick.”_

Bruce’s smile was radiant. “ _Nice to meet you, Dick. Now, come on. Let’s go home.”_

“Grayson? _Grayson.”_

Damian was shaking him roughly by the shoulder, and all at once, Dick was back. He blinked, ripped his eyes away from the center ring, and looked over at Damian, who was scowling up at him with a pinched expression. There was someone else seated on the bench next to him; a little girl with curly blonde hair and wide green eyes.

“Is…he okay?” she whispered, like she was afraid anything louder would scare Dick away like a frightened animal.

“Tt. Of course he is.” Damian’s fingers uncurled from his brother’s shoulder, and he sniffed. “He was merely daydreaming again, I suppose. Quite rude, to drift off in the middle of a conversation, and yet—”

“Sorry, Dami,” Dick sighed, managing a smile. “Just…thinking. What were you saying about Zucco?”

“I was _saying,_ Grayson, that he doesn’t strike me as a family annihilator. His modus operandi—”

“M.O.,” Dick corrected gently. He and Barbara had been trying to wean Damian off of the technical terms, and use more shorthand language, especially with cases. He’d fought back a little, going so far as to use nothing but Latin terms on a burglary case with Batgirl. Gordon and the other officers involved had merely shaken their heads, but Stephanie burst into frustrated tears thirty-five minutes in. If Dick remembered right, her exact words had been, ‘ _For the love of &*#! I don’t speak your &*#% exorcism language you demon midget!’ _Batwoman had had to swing over to the precinct to calm Batgirl down. Apparently, she’d taken Steph to go get ice cream.

“Tt. Fine. His _M.O._ revolves strictly around extortion. It stands to reason that when Haly refused Zucco’s offer, he would have caused property damage, like most of the gangs do, and _maybe_ would have killed off one or two circus workers.” Damian shrugged his shoulders. “But the Flying Graysons were…a family.”

Dick sat up a little straighter. “ _And_ they were the circus’s headlining act. The best source of income.” The words poured out of his mouth as realization began to flicker to life in his mind. “A smart mobster doesn’t decimate the people he’s trying to extort. He hurts them enough to make them cave, but he doesn’t _decimate_ them. He wanted money, so why would he gun for the best earning act of the show?”

His voice was barely above a whisper. _Zucco_ killed his family. He knew that much. He and Bruce had worked on the case his first year of being Robin. They found Zucco, holed up in a nightclub, and brought him in. The mobster caved in no time, confessing to everything.

The evidence all lined up. The timing, Zucco’s lack of alibis. But—

Maybe…it all lined up a little _too well._ There was no doubt in Dick’s mind that Tony Zucco had sabotaged the trapeze that his family used in their final routine. But…what if someone else had gotten him to do it? Arranged the whole thing?

“Dami,” Dick said quietly. “I’m going to need to look into a few things while we’re here.”

“Um.”

The girl’s voice made both of them jump to attention. Dick had almost forgotten she was there. Her fingers waggled at them in a sheepish wave as she said, “You are Dick Grayson, right? Raya sent me to come and get you for practice.”

Dick turned to look at the trapeze beam. Raya was standing on the platform, waving over at them with a grin.

“Oh!” he said. Then jolted to his feet. “That’s right. Sorry I’m late.”

“That’s okay.” The girl shrugged. “I’m always late too. That’s why she sent me.”

Dick smiled at her, then turned to his little brother. “Hey. Are you going to be okay up here?”

Damian pulled his legs up onto the bench, curling them into a perfect criss-cross-applesauce. With a raised eyebrow, he huffed, “Please, Grayson. This will be the perfect opportunity for me to meditate. And to finish my book.”

He eased out a banged-up paperback from the backpack he’d brought from the Batmobile, and showed Dick the cover reluctantly.

“Hound of the Baskervilles,” Dick said, giving him an approving nod. “Didn’t know you were into mystery novels, Dami.”

“Tt. Blame Drake.” Damian flipped open to a spot in the book, and pulled out a rumpled piece of notebook paper he’d been using for a bookmark. “The fool only read the first half to me, leaving me to wonder at the end result of Holmes’s and Watson’s case. I find it to be fascinating.”

“That’s great, Dami. I’ll only be a little while.”

Damian’s eyes were already tracing the yellowed pages. “Try not to embarrass yourself too badly, Grayson.”

Dick huffed out a breath of laughter, and followed the girl down the steps of the stands. She kept glancing behind them, up towards Damian. “He’s weird,” she said, but not like an insult. More as a statement of fact, like ‘His shirt is green’ or ‘I like his shoes’.

“Damian’s an old soul,” Dick said with a shrug. “But I don’t think we’ve officially met. I’m Dick.”

“I know,” she said.

There was an awkward pause in the conversation, as they reached the bottom, and stalked across the Big Top floor. People were rushing past, carrying props and pieces of lightning or sound equipment. The show was set to start in just a few hours, and last-minute changes and tweaks were still in progress.

Dick tried again. “What’s your name?”

“Christina.”

He waited a few seconds, eyes darting around the tent. The little girl next to him was still silent.

“How old are you?”

“Nine.”

“Um…what’s your act?”

“Trapeze.”

“Oh, hey! Me too. That’s really cool.” Dick’s voice was overly cheery, but he didn’t care. “Do you like it?”

Christina looked up at him with her intense little green eyes. Her face was blank as she said, “You ask a _lot_ of questions.”

The uneasy silence resumed, and Dick’s fingers drummed uncomfortably on his thigh. A breath blew through his lips. He was just about to ask another random question, probably about her favorite color or where she went to school, when Raya saved him.

“There you two are!” She waved her arms as she stalked across the floor towards them. “We were just about ready to start the next routine. Christina? Have you met Dick yet?”

Christina’s eyelids drooped. “Yep.”

Raya’s eyes widened a little, and she shot Dick an apologetic smile. “Dick, this is Christina Vogel. She’s the youngest member of our aerialist group. Christina, this is Dick Grayson. Do you remember me telling you about the Flying Graysons?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Vogel?” Dick repeated, noticing Raya had used a German pronunciation. He turned to the girl with a smile and said, “ _Sprichst du Deutsch, fraulein?_ _“_

Christina perked up immediately. A wide smile lit up her whole face as she enthusiastically replied, “ _Ja! Aber niemand sonst tut.”_

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Dick said with a chuckle. “Everybody here speaks _something.”_

Christina shrugged. “Well, fine. But your accent is _horrible.”_

Raya tipped her head back with a laugh at Dick’s expression. She shook her head, waving them over, and took off towards the other practicing acrobats. “C’mon, you two. We’re gonna get started.”

They followed her up the ladder, and Dick couldn’t help but smile at the familiar feel of the iron rungs clasped in his palms. As the trio climbed higher and higher, he felt the same riveting swoop in his stomach as the ground got further and further away. And when they reached the top, they could see everything. The people hurrying down below, the movement of the other two acrobats swinging and flipping through the air. A surge of nostalgia ripped through Dick, and his face broke out into a grin. It must have been almost a _decade_ since he’d been up on this platform.

But then again, there was a nagging feeling, at the back of his mind, that…that wasn’t exactly the case. It lingered for a moment, but then flew away like an acrobat letting go of the bar.

Raya planted her hands on her hips and turned to Christina. “Let’s show Dick your gazelles.” She tipped her chin up and barked to the other flyers, “Stella! Angelo! Up and off! Chrissie’s turn!”

The aerialists looked up at them, then swung up onto the opposite platform. The curly-haired young woman first, and the curly-haired young man next.

“Twins,” Raya told him. “We picked them up on our last tour in Florence. I’m sure you’ve heard of the Ricci Family?”

Dick’s eyebrows shot up as he matched Raya’s pose. “You mean the Italian Aerialist Family? That was basically the European version of The Flying Graysons _?_  So these two— _they’re_ Ricci’s?”

Raya’s smirk was smug. “Uh-huh. Stella and Angelo. They got overwhelmed with their circus’s constant schedule, and decided to kick it with Haly’s for a little while.”

“’Overwhelmed’?” Dick had a hard time keeping the skepticism out of his voice. “I mean, sure, Circa Spettacolare has shows every night, but they’re only, like, an hour long!”

Raya nudged his shoulder and shot him a wry smile. “I dunno. Maybe here, they’re just the right amount of ‘whelmed’.”

A surprised grin snaked its way back up his face. Raya’s smile was equally warm, but she turned away from him, and watched as Christina leapt from the platform and grasped the swinging trapeze. With practiced movements, she looped one knee over one of the ropes, stretching the other leg across the bar. Dick’s jaw slackened as the girl draped the rest of her body down, letting her arms hang loose as she swung across the void.

“How old is she again?” he asked breathlessly.

“Only nine,” Raya responded excitedly. “But look at her form! Give her a few years, and she could be leading this troupe on her own!”

Dick raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what about you? Aren’t _you_ the leader of this little acrobatic group?”

Raya shot him a sidelong smile. “Let’s just say, I have…other plans. Can’t fly forever, you know.”

“Heh. Says who?”

Below them, Christina flipped herself upright, and started swinging her legs up and over the bar in a flip. She started to tumble towards the ground, and Dick’s heart leapt up into his throat. He surged forward. To do what, he wasn’t entirely sure. But the back of Raya’s hand on his chest stopped him short.

Christina’s body was streamlined, and her body language betrayed zero panic. Just as she was about ten feet from the ground, she was suddenly scooped away by a pair of swift hands. The Ricci twins had swung down, Angelo Ricci in a knee-hang as he held his sister, and Stella Ricci with her hands stretched out. The trio glided up, up, until they were close enough that Dick could see the sweat on Angelo’s brow and the tight line of Stella’s mouth. Christina let go of their hands, and with practiced fluidity, flipped herself back onto the platform.

Dick let out a relieved huff of breath. Then beamed. “ _Das war unglaublich!”_ he praised, clapping his hands. _That was incredible!_ Christina straightened at the compliment, squaring her shoulders confidently as her smile widened.

“ _Danke, Herr Grayson!” Thanks, Mr. Grayson!_

 _“Bitte nennen Sie mich_ Dick,” he asked her gently. _Please call me Dick._ Christina nodded, and turned to Raya, almost bouncing in place.

“How’d I do?” she asked, voice a little breathless.

Raya ruffled her blonde hair fondly, and smiled up at Dick. “You did perfectly, sweetheart. Now go practice. Dick and I will join you guys in just a sec, ‘kay?”

As if in response, Christina grinned, and fell backward off the platform. Dick knew to expect Stella and Angelo this time, but he could still feel his heartbeat stutter a little. He watched the trio swing up towards the other side, tracing the flyers’ movements carefully, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Raya studying him.

“What?” he mumbled.

She cocked her head. “Nothing, just…you tense up a lot. Whenever someone gets too close to the edge. Or jumps off.”

Dick bit his lip.

“Dickie, are you…afraid of heights?”

He might have laughed. The thousands of times he’d jumped off of literal skyscrapers flashed in his mind, along with the feelings of exhilaration that came with them. Saying that Dick Grayson was afraid of heights was like saying that a fish was afraid of water. Or that a bird was afraid of flying.

But he couldn’t deny the lurch in his stomach every time he saw his siblings stand on a roof’s edge. Watched them dive over the side, and felt himself freeze up, throat closing off and heartbeat going still, until the puff of their grapple broke the deafening ring in his ears. Until they swung up and away, perfectly safe, he couldn’t stop the flood of worst-case scenarios in his brain. Jason—the free-falling adrenaline junkie—forgetting to shoot his line before he was too close to the ground. Tim tripping over his cape and falling hundreds of feet, his grapple jammed and useless. Stephanie, a broken heap on the concrete. Damian—who always disconnected a little early as he swung over the side of a building—underestimating the distance between boots and roof, and tumbling down the side of a skyscraper.

Barbara—laying in a pool of her own blood…

_Don’t go there. Not now. Not now…_

“No, just…” he chuckled a little, rubbing the back of his head. “I don’t know. You ever see someone about to fall from somewhere high, and want to pull them back?”

Raya nodded slowly, eyes searching his.

“I’m not afraid of falling.” Dick tried to shrug off his obvious discomfort with a smile and another attempt at a laugh. “But, whenever I see someone else…”

The unexpected warmth of Raya’s hand in his made his voice die out. Fingers twined with his, she squeezed his hand. “Dick,” she said softly, “Trust me. I understand.”

Her thumb traced over his knuckles, and he noticed that her hands were harder, more worn, than Barbara’s. It was the difference, he supposed, between a martial artist’s hands, and an acrobat’s hands. Barbara had calluses, but not nearly as many as Raya. As a result, the aerialist’s skin was rougher, but not…unpleasant.

“You watched your family fall.” Raya’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it might as well have been the only sound in the tent. “I was there, too, you know. I saw it happen. And I’m _so_ sorry, Dickie. No kid should ever have to—”

Her voice cut off sharply. Dick looked down, and saw a tear streak down her cheek. Out of instinct, his free hand came up, and he wiped it away with the pad of his thumb. Raya’s wide eyes met his, and she shot him a thin, hesitant smile.

“I’m sorry,” she said with a huff of self-derisive laughter. “ _You’re_ the one who lost your whole family. I shouldn’t—”

“Hey.” Dick cut her off softly. “My mom was your mentor, wasn’t she? And Maggie was like a sister to you.”

Raya hesitated, then nodded.

“ _And_ we used to practice together all the time.” His smile widened a little. “If anything, you were just as much a part of the family as anyone.”

“Well…not quite, I hope,” Raya shot back quietly. Her hazel eyes watched him with undecipherable intensity, and as they narrowed slightly, Dick felt like he was about to swallow his tongue.

“Rai,” he said, slowly, testing the waters, “Do you ever think about that night?”

His hand was still clasped in hers. (Why hadn’t he let go yet?)

Raya hummed a little. “What do you mean?”

“The accident…Zucco…” He trailed off, then shrugged his shoulders a little and continued. “He didn’t have to go after my whole family. That’s not really his style, you know? So…”

“Why did he?” Raya finished his sentence thoughtfully. Her hand squeezed his. And then she let out a heavy sigh. “We don’t know Dickie. We might never know. That man was deranged, and evil, and—”

“Except he wasn’t deranged.” Dick’s face twisted into a deep frown. “I _know_ deranged, and Zucco wasn’t it. Evil? Maybe. But he never would have killed off a good investment like the Graysons. Don’t you think?”

Her stare was firm. “I think you’re looking into this a little too deeply, Dick.”

He reared back, a little stunned by the hardness in her tone. “What do you mean?”

“Just…” Raya’s expression and voice both softened, losing the sharp intensity from before. She allowed a wry smile to twist up her face. “What’s that thing that Sidra always says? The dog that digs deepest—”

“—finds the bones,” Dick finished carefully.

“Exactly. I think it means that if you really want something, you just need to work for it. But…” Slowly, Raya’s free hand came up to his face. She cupped his jaw in her callused palm, and everything inside of Dick was screaming at him to step away. Pull out of her grasp and hurry down the ladder. But as he stared into those deep eyes, he found that his feet were rooted to the spot. “Do you ever think that means…not to dig too deeply into things? You never know what you’ll find, and…Dick, I don’t want you to find any bones.”

“If Haly’s doesn’t have any skeletons in its closet,” Dick replied in a whisper, “then I won’t.”

“We all have skeletons in our closets, Dick.” She was moving closer, lifting up on the tips of her toes until her lips were a hair’s breadth away from his. He could feel the warm puff of her breath on his face as she spoke. “And sometimes, they’re better left tucked away.”

“Rai,” Dick pleaded. “Something’s going on inside the circus. Something _wrong._ I can feel it. Just tell me, and I can help, whatever it is, just—”

Raya planted a swift kiss against his mouth. Quick as lightning and twice as shocking. Before Dick could react, she spun away with a laugh, and flipped over the edge of the platform. Her body sailed through the air, before Stella swept in to snatch her up.

Dick’s face was warm as a blush exploded across his face.

 _‘You shouldn’t…’_ he thought vaguely. _‘Shouldn’t feel this…this…what was…’_

“Dickie!” Raya’s voice flew threw the air, and hit him like a kick to the gut. “What are you waiting for? We’ve got a show to put on!”

Dick swallowed down the lump in his throat, and dared a glance over the edge.

Then, he squared his shoulders, and flew.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Uuuggghh.” Helena sank low in her seat, and the material of her dress squeaked against the leather. “Babs, you said we were going _clubbing._ ”

Selina was waving at the driver to stop at the curb, and Barbara couldn’t help the smug smirk that slid up her face. Outside the limo, the gaggle of sharply-dressed guests lingering on the sidewalk were chatting and muttering to each other in a dull drone. The lights from the Lounge’s entrance turned everyone’s faces blue.

“The Iceberg Lounge _is_ a club, Hel,” she said airily. “And besides, we were too overdressed for a regular nightclub, anyway.”

Helena scowled, but followed them out of the limousine and up towards the doors. People already in line scowled at them as they cut to the front. Selina cheekily pulled aside the black velvet rope and let the other three in through the gap. The bouncer was not pleased.

Just as they were about to step through the other velvet rope that barred the entrance, he stepped in front of them. He was bulking and huge, the kind of man any Rogue in the city would be happy to have as a bruiser. Barbara supposed that Cobblepot just paid better than most. He growled down at them, and said,

“No cutting in line.”

A roar of assent rippled through the waiting patrons, as people began to realize that they were being cheated out of five minutes of their time. The five women tipped their chins up and scowled at the bouncer. Barbara wasn’t sure whether she should expect Selina to take the lead, or whether the others were all waiting for her to. But just as she was in the middle of deciding, it was Helena who spoke up.

“Sir, what’s your name?”

His squinted eyes zeroed in on the raven-haired Bird of Prey. “Beg your pardon?”

Helena’s hip jutted out, and she laid a hand on top. Barbara knew the look on her face immediately. It was the look that made the other Birds straighten up and listen. It was the kind of look Helena usually had just before she punched someone in the teeth. Her eyes were steely and her tone resolved as she repeated, “What’s. Your. Name.”

“What’s it to you?”

“Oh, I just want to know the name of the man responsible for holding up the line,” Helena breezed. Barbara almost shivered at the ice in her voice. “And for keeping the granddaughter of Frank Bertinelli waiting.”

The bouncer stiffened.

There weren’t very many people in Gotham who still recognized the name Frank Bertinelli. Years ago, before even Bruce’s time, the man had carried the respect of an entire city, and was one of the most highly-regarded mob bosses in Gotham’s history. (At least, until he was dethroned by rival Carmine Falcone.) Barbara knew how much of a gamble it was for Helena to mention the name of her grandfather. Bertinelli had been killed along with his son and daughter-in-law years ago in the tragedy that left Helena an orphan. And there were still enemies out and about who were eager to destroy the last of the Bertinelli line.

But there were also enough people left in the city who recognized the power of the name Bertinelli, and shook with fear at the mere mention of it. There were still quiet supporters of the old titans, who would be waiting in the shadows to leap to the last Bertinelli’s defense.

“I-I…” the bouncer glanced at the stretching line with a frown. “That only gets four of you in. I can’t—"

“ _Ah_ -bah-bah-bah-bah.” Helena snapped her fingers, lifting one eyebrow. “I beg _your_ pardon?”

“Entourage limit of three,” the man gruffed, bowing his head respectfully. “I’m sorry, Miss Bertinelli, but Mr. Cobblepot is very particular. One of you will have to wait outside.”

The other four women exchanged a wary glance. But before any of them could react, Helena’s other arm snaked around Barbara’s waist. The Batwoman shivered a little at the unexpected skin contact, but caught onto Helena’s intent immediately. With a purr, she nestled into her partner’s side.

“And what about my plus-one?” Helena demanded. “For #*&%’s sake, I can’t exactly leave my girlfriend out in the cold. I mean, look at her!”

It _was_ a cold night to be out like this, what with all the thin fabric, or lack thereof. Barbara noted the bouncer’s eyes rake over her body, lingering at her nearly-bare chest and stomach. She resisted the urge to shiver. Barely.

“I don’t know about—”

Helena’s jaw dropped. “Ex-cuse _you,_ sir. This is the twenty-first century, for crying out loud! Are you trying to tell me that I can’t love another woman? Does that disgust you? Make you uncomfortable?”

“I—”

The patrons in line turned to glare at the bouncer. There were a few shouts of protest and a couple audible threats. Good old Gotham City. You could always trust its people to come through when it counted.

The bouncer shrunk back, flustered. “I don’t—”

“Does _this_ make you uncomfortable, _sir?”_ Helena demanded. She twirled Barbara around, cupped her face, and locked her lips against hers before she even had the chance to react. But once she got her bearings, Barbara hummed, and laced her fingers through Helena’s hair. Careful, of course, not to mess up the meticulous updo. A cheer went up from the crowd.

The kiss lasted for an uncomfortable amount of time—which was exactly their intent. The man cleared his throat, and stuttered out, “I…think we can…um…you might be able to…”

Helena broke apart from Barbara with a _pop,_ and glared up at the muscled man. “You might be able to _what?_ Let us all through? Or do I need to see your manager, _sir?”_

 _“_ P-please. Come right on in,” the bouncer breathed hoarsely. As he lifted the velvet rope aside, the line let out another roar of approval.

Helena smirked at the man, grasped Barbara’s hand in hers, then sashayed through the ornate doorway of the Iceberg Lounge. Selina, Ivy and Harley all followed with barely muffled giggles.

“Was that okay?” Helena whispered to her, once they were safely inside. The warmth of the building’s heating settled like a blanket over Barbara’s pronounced goosebumps, and she let out a small contented sigh. Squeezing Helena’s hand once more, she dropped it, and reached up to her own hairstyle, where she pulled out a small device. It was a little silver disk that reflected the white lamplight from the club’s lobby.

A few members of the staff were hurrying past. One of them passed a little too closely to Barbara’s side. She reached inside the woman’s pocket, fingers dipping inside then drawing out in the space of a heartbeat. Too fast for the waitress to even notice a difference.

“Babs?” Helena whispered again, sounding a little more desperate. “I’m _so_ sorry. If that wasn’t okay, then—”

Barbara smiled over at her friend. “You’re kidding, right? That was _brilliant,_ Hel! I couldn’t have come up with a better distraction.”

Helena let out a relieved sigh.

“Besides,” Barbara continued, tone sly and smooth. “You and I would’ve made a #$%% of a power-couple in another life, you know?”

“Pfft, as if. I’ve learned from experience—you’re definitely way too high-maintenance for me.” Helena grinned, but shrugged her off and strode towards the waiting doors that would lead them into the club’s main area. She peeked inside, then nodded. They could already hear the buzz of the patrons’ idle conversations, the clinking of dishes and a soft singing voice crooning in between it all.

Selina, Ivy and Harley followed them to a nearby alcove that was off to the side, and Barbara held up the little silver disk. It was the size of a dime, and about twice as thin.

“This,” she said, “Is a special tracking device from my belt. It sticks to most clothing, and is virtually undetectable—if you put it in the right spot. Once you pin it on someone, you can listen in on any of their conversations, and track their movements through the building. I have enough for each of us, but remember to only aim for someone you feel is a suspect.”

“And who,” Ivy asked skeptically, “counts as a suspect?”

Barbara frowned over at her, then continued, “Aim for someone who…holds themselves differently. Acts like they’re above everyone else in the room. Look for people who clearly come from money—believe me, if they’re the right suspect, they won’t be trying to hide their wealth.”

“So, a narcissist?” Harley clapped her hands delightedly. “I can spot a narcissist a mile away!”

Selina didn’t seem quite as convinced. “This is the Iceberg Lounge, Barbara. Most of the people in here are two things: snooty and rich, so—”

“Trust me,” Barbara said solemnly. “You’ll know your man—or woman—when you see them. Just stay sharp. Harley, Ivy, I want you taking a table close to the kitchen. Stay discreet, since you’re the most likely to be recognized here. One of you should try to peg a staff member. Someone who looks important, or maybe someone who looks like they want to complain about their job—”

“You just said to go for a socialite!” Ivy protested, eyes narrowed.

Barbara matched her expression, lips pursed. “Yes. _Except_ for a member of the staff. Or even two. You’d be surprised how much talk goes on between frustrated coworkers.” She and Ivy glared at each other for a few more seconds before Barbara turned to the other two, ignoring Pamela completely. “Selina? Scope out the floor. I’m giving you two extra disks, so you’ll have the most targets. Stay discreet, but feel free to peg any three targets using whatever means necessary.”

Selina smirked, and nodded. “I forgot how much fun it is to run with a Bat.”

Barbara returned the smile, then looked to Helena, who was scowling over at her thoughtfully. “Hel, you’re on the mic.”

“Comms?”

“Stage.”

_“What?”_

Barbara held up the small smart-phone she’d picked from the waitress’s pocket. It had taken only a few seconds to hack, and she had the evening’s itinerary up in full glowing display. The other women’s eyes locked onto the performers’ schedule, and noticed that there was a blank spot after the current singer.

“Convenient,” Helena spat. “But the answer’s _no._ You want a someone to sing? Go call Dina.”

“What?” Barbara let out a mock gasp, hand fluttering to her lips. “But, Hel, look, your name’s already on the list!”

Sure enough, the tiny letters that spelled out _Helena B._ popped up in the blank slot on the schedule. When she saw it, Huntress’s eyes shot open wide. “Oh, you _&!^$#. _ I’m serious, Babs. _Call Dina!_ My voice is terrible!”

“So not,” Barbara sang. “Besides, you’d better hurry. You’re on in five, and the Penguin’s guests don’t like to be kept waiting.”

Helena stormed out of the alcove with a feral growl. She paced a little, then whirled around, her gaze pure venom. “Why can’t any of the others sing something? Why _me?”_

Barbara followed her out, and put up a hand to rest on her friend’s shoulder. Helena shook it off with an angry huff, so Barbara said, “Because Selina’s going to turn heads the second she walks in the room. Everyone knows her as Bruce Wayne’s girlfriend, and she wouldn’t stand a chance in the papers. And Ivy and Harley can get a pass if they sit near the back, but put them up on stage, and everyone’s going to recognize Harley Quinn or Poison Ivy in five seconds flat.”

“Then why the singing, anyway? And why don’t _you_ get up there and tweet like a &*#% canary?” Helena snarled through her teeth.

Barbara shrugged her bare shoulders, wincing a little as the movement pulled at the hidden bandage. Helena noticed, and her look softened. But only a little. “Maybe I will. Maybe not. But first, I’ve got other things to worry about. And the stage has the best vantage point, so I need you keeping an eye on my six. If anyone follows me, you can call the others. Use a special code-word, or something. A code-song.” She gave a wicked grin. “Like Cotton Eye Joe?”

“I. _Hate._ You.” Helena’s look was pure malice. “And what’ll you be doing, your majesty?”

Barbara grimaced, and waved the phone up again. Penguin’s schedule was now up on the screen in neat little labelled boxes. “Mr. Cobblepot has an appointment with an escort in about ten minutes.”

Helena’s jaw dropped. So did the others’.

“Babs, _no.”_ she groaned out, as if unable to believe what she’d just heard out of Barbara’s mouth. “No way.”

Barbara took a few steps towards the doors, where chatting patrons were already parading through into the main Lounge. “It’s perfect,” she said with another shrug. “I can get Penguin alone, knock him off his guard, and—the best part—no one will interrupt, no matter what they hear.”

Helena put two fingers up to her temples. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Babs, he’s the &*##^$% _Penguin._ For the love of—”

Barbara threw up a hand. “I’m doing it, Hel. Plan’s already in motion—”

“You and your _plans,”_ Helena scoffed. “What if he hurts you? &*#, Babs, what if he—”

“I can take care of myself, thank you very much,” Barbara snapped. “And if you want to help me keep things under control, then you’ll go out there—” she jabbed a finger towards the doors, “—get up on that stage, and sing your &*#% heart out until they beg for an encore, alright?”

Helena’s mouth snapped shut, and her face turned an angry shade of red. But she didn’t respond. Instead, she pushed past Barbara, and was the first one through the doors.

The others followed her inside. Any heat from the Lobby was sucked away as the chill from the room’s centerpiece—a two-and-a-half-story iceberg surrounded by an icy moat—permeated the air. Goosebumps prickled across Barbara’s skin, but she was glad to see that she wasn’t alone. Ladies all across the club were laughing and chatting as they idly rubbed a little warmth into their bare arms.

Barbara definitely had to hand it to Cobblepot when it came to flair. The Lounge itself was enormous; two stories of tables above the ground floor, all of it crowded with glittering and finely-dressed patrons. Almost everything sparkled. Whether it was from the crystal lamps and chandeliers hanging everywhere, or the ice sculptures and glass decorations that littered the room, she couldn’t be sure. Maybe it was all of that and more. Even the tablecloths seemed to sparkle like freshly fallen snow.

Above the first three floors, there was one more that was strictly reserved for Penguin and his closest friends. Closed offices and bedrooms. Where the Penguin conducted almost all of his business, both the over-the counter and under-the-table types.

And all of it was arranged in a ring, open in the middle to surround the club’s namesake like a protective barrier. Spiral staircases dripped like icicles from the top floor. And there, nestled near the bottom of the Iceberg, a small carved-out space just big enough for a band, and a woman singing her &*#% heart out into a microphone.

Heads turned as they stepped down the small flight of stairs and onto the Lounge floor. A few men dared to whistle or mutter crude things under their breaths. But none of the five women paid any of the other patrons an ounce of attention as they fanned out. Barbara nodded to each of them, and said, “You know your assignments ladies. Now go get ‘em.”

The three Gotham Rogues took off. Helena lingered by Barbara’s side.

“You sure you’ve got this?” she muttered, playing with one of the silver bangles she’d borrowed from Selina.

Barbara scoffed. “Pretty sure I can handle a fat old man with a bird fetish.” Then, softly, she added. “What about you? Are you going to be alright with this?”

Helena waved a hand, and sauntered towards the bridge that would take her across the moat to the stage. “Oh Babs,” she said, as she walked away. “You owe me _big_ for this.”

Barbara smiled. Swallowed hard. And dared to look up at the fourth floor, where Cobblepot’s office windows reflected the dim Lounge lights.

 _‘Oh Babs’, is right,_ she thought scornfully. Then, taking a deep breath, sauntered towards the nearest spiral staircase. The singer finished her song with a last barrage of high notes, then the room was filled with the rustling of applause. Barbara’s footsteps were drowned out as she hurried up the first few steps, heels clacking on the polished stone.

An announcer’s voice boomed through the Lounge.

_“Alysia Yeoh, everyone! And now, our next special guest this evening…Helena B!”_

Barbara tossed a glance over her shoulder at the stage. Helena’s deep purple dress stood out starkly against the pale white and blue iceberg. Barbara could almost see her friend’s hands shaking as she reached up, grasped the microphone, and took a deep breath. She looked up, then, and caught Barbara’s eyes.

Helena scowled, turned to one of the band members to mutter out a quick request, then faced front. She looked up at Barbara with a clear challenge in her gaze. A few of the strings started their opening notes, and Helena held up the mic.

_“Oh, she’s sweet but a psycho, a little bit psycho—"_

A laugh bubbled out of Barbara’s throat. She kept climbing as Helena’s smooth alto swept over the room. Huntress could say whatever she wanted about her voice, but it _was_ incredible. If she was being honest, Barbara could have picked any vantage point in this entire Lounge for Helena, and it would have worked just as well. But every now and again, Helena just needed a little reminder of how amazing she was.

_“At night she's screamin' “I'm-ma-ma-ma out my mind”—"_

As she rounded the next curve, she was already at the second floor. Helena caught her eye again, and Barbara blew her a kiss.

_“She'll make you curse, but she a blessing. She'll rip your shirt, within a second. You'll be coming back, back for seconds, with your plate, you just can't help it—No—no! You'll play alo-o-ong, let her lead you on, on, on. You'll be saying, "No—no!" Then saying, "Yes, yes, yes" ‘cause she messin' with your head—”_

Barbara shot another wink down at Helena, definitely catching the pointedness of the lyrics, but doubted her friend could see it. She’d reached the fourth floor, now, and there were far fewer wandering guests around. None, in fact. Her heeled shoes whispered against the carpet as she strode down the hall, fingers brushing lightly over the chill marble railing.

 _There._ Cobblepot’s office was just a few feet up ahead.

_“Grab a cop gun kinda crazy, She's poison but tasty. Yeah, people say, "Run, don't walk away". 'Cause she's sweet but a psycho, a little bit psycho. At night she's screamin' "I'm-ma-ma-ma out my mind"—”_

There was another girl stepping lightly towards the door, coming from the other direction. She was dressed up in a tight leather dress with fishnets and black heels. A blonde wig—it was _too_ blonde to be anything but—bounced around her face as she walked. Barbara almost groaned in disgust. It was clear who the escort was meant to be impersonating, and she was doubly glad that Dina wasn’t here.

“Excuse me?” Barbara asked airily. “Are you Mr. Cobblepot’s nine-o’-clock?”

The other girl eyed her up and down. Her mouth twisted. “Why, baby? Wanna follow-up?”

Barbara sauntered forward, swinging her hips lazily. Her fingers brushed over her skirt, and the spider silk-thin wires she’d planted there stuck to her fingers like glue. She rubbed her thumb lazily over the pads of her fingers and said, “He won’t be needing your services tonight, hon.”

The girl turned, opened her mouth to tell Barbara off. “Look, I don’t know who you think you— _agh!”_

The girl’s muscles stiffened and convulsed as Barbara’s fingers wrapped around her arm. Her gauntlet’s electric wiring prickled against her own skin, but the charge on her end wasn’t enough to do anything more than sting a little. The escort, on the other hand, didn’t get off quite as easily. She slumped against the wall, eyes rolled back, and Barbara managed to catch her head before it could bang against anything.

Dragging the woman was easy enough—she weighed almost nothing. Barbara carefully laid her out around the corner behind a large potted plant with blue leaves and white sparkling decorations. Then, heaving a sigh, she straightened her dress, deactivated the wiring, and stepped back out in front of Penguin’s door.

Nervousness shot through Barbara’s veins like heroin, but she set her jaw and placed a hand on the cold metal doorknob. She could work with nerves—she’d been working through nerves since she was a teenager. This was just an intelligence-gathering mission…A cake-walk…Besides, this was only Penguin, not the J—

_Don’t. Just don’t. Remember who you are, and go make Penguin remember it._

 She threw the door open.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Oswald Cobblepot looked up so quickly, that his jowls bounced underneath his chin. His office had been darkened, the only light coming from a few lamps set out along the perimeter of the room, leaving the man’s face in an eerie yellow glow. There was a wide stretch of carpet between Cobblepot’s desk and Barbara’s feet, and she stepped forward, hoping to close that distance as…carefully…as possible.

Because she’d been expecting the Penguin. Lounging behind his desk with his ringed fingers resting on a pile of papers—looking, for all the world, like a tycoon from a turn-of-the-century political cartoon. But she hadn’t expected the man standing over his shoulder, dressed in an emerald-green suit that shone in the light like a beetle’s shell. (Though she probably should have, given the spot in Penguin’s schedule just before his meeting with the escort. It had been marked: _Inventory Review._ She guessed that was code for ‘meeting with old criminal-buddy’.) The standing man’s hair was slicked back, and his gaze was as poisonous as his outfit. Barbara sashayed forward. She could feel her skirt brushing against her bare legs, and she knew that the men noticed it too.

“Good evening, Ozzie,” she crooned. Then, nodded to the other man. “Nygma. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The Riddler frowned at her, a question clearly on his lips. But he didn’t get the chance to ask it before Penguin said, eyes flicking to the clock on the wall, “Are you my nine-o’-clock?”

Barbara paused, now standing at the center of the floor’s oriental rug. She struck a pose, arms held up in an exaggerated shrug, and managed a coy smile. “Suppose I am.”

Neither man seemed convinced. Oswald squinted at her, raking his eyes up and down her dress and body. From the floor, to the open window at the front of her dress that she’d been banking on as a distraction. As Dina—often in the seductress role herself on Bird missions—was fond of saying, ‘if they’re busy looking at your chest, they’re too busy to look at your face’. Not that it stopped the shivers of discomfort prickling on her skin.

“I thought I ordered a blonde,” Cobblepot said drolly, “But I suppose I should count my blessings, mm?”

“Funny, I didn’t think you ordered a twofer,” Barbara shot back, resuming her march. She shot the Riddler a meaningful frown. “And yet, here we are.”

“Oswald,” Nygma muttered. “Something isn’t right about this.”

Barbara laughed dryly as she finally made it to their end of the room. She raised one leg, and slid up onto the desk. Both men watched with wide eyes as she settled into place over the top of Cobblepot’s ledgers and contracts. The papers rustled as her skirt brushed them aside. She rested her weight on one arm, the other draped over her bare waist. Barbara’s legs stretched out, then curled beneath her. It seemed as though the two men before her were having a hard time deciding where to focus their attention, and she pretended to preen under their scrutiny.

“Oh, there’s a _lot_ that isn’t quite right about this little situation, don’t you think?” she practically purred, letting her long red curls fall over part of her face. The Penguin’s ogling gaze was fixed firmly on her cleavage, so she reached out, and caught his generous chin with a finger, tilting it up to meet her narrowed eyes. “But that’s what makes this fun.”

His eyes stayed latched on hers for a few seconds as his mouth fell open. Then, he reached down to a drawer in his desk. There was a flash of green as the bound bundle of bills was brought into view.

“I’m afraid the fee for your time has slipped my mind,” he breathed. “Would you care to remind me?”

Nygma scoffed, and looked out one of the office’s windows. There was a perfect view of the stage below, where Helena appeared to _really_ be getting into whatever song she was on at the moment. The girl could say whatever she wanted about singing, but when it came right down to it, Helena _loved_ the stage. She should count herself lucky that all _she_ had to do was hit a few notes and listen to the applause.

“Oh,” Barbara leaned forward, her face just inches away from Cobblepot’s. The urge to vomit was growing stronger and stronger with each passing second, but she forced herself to focus. “All I want for my time is just one…little…thing…”

“Hmm?” Oswald hummed, leaning forward.

“Mm-hmm.”

_Okay, Babs. Keep it together. Don’t puke don’t puke don’t puke—_

She met the Penguin in the middle, planting a feathery light kiss on his lips.

He tasted exactly the way she would have expected: like dust and old fish. Her stomach lurched violently three seconds in, but Barbara was proud of the poker face she maintained as she pulled back. Cobblepot’s eyes were still closed. When they fluttered open, a loose little smile crept up his large face.

“And what, my dear,” he asked breathlessly, “would that be?”

Barbara giggled a little, tilting her chin down. “Well, riddle me this, Ozzie. I use it every day, but never pay a dime. I own it, but it was given to me. And it’s _very_ personal—” She ran a hand from her waist to her upper thigh. “—but I’ll share it with anyone…What is it?”

Penguin’s mouth was still hanging open stupidly, but Riddler stiffened. He turned away from the window so quickly, he might as well have been electrocuted, and fixed Barbara with a scrutinous stare.

“I don’t know,” Penguin said, obviously trying (and failing) to match her flirtations. “Could it be—”

“Your name.” Nygma stepped away from the window, moving closer to the desk. He was watching Barbara like a hawk scoping out a field for a mouse. Barbara matched his look with a smirk.

“Oh, _very_ good, Nygma,” she praised, rolling her head a little onto her shoulder. “Easy to see which one of you is the brains of the operation. Now. There’s the game, boys. Tell me my name, and I’m all yours.”

Riddler stalked around the corner of the desk. His footsteps were soft on the carpet, but just loud enough that Barbara could place him exactly as he stepped behind her. “Who are you?” he growled, and she felt the puff of his breath against her bare shoulder.

Barbara tossed her hair as she craned her neck. It bared her throat to Penguin, and gave off the impression that she was straining to see where Nygma had landed. “Now, now, Eddie. _That_ would be cheating,” she pouted.

She felt his gloves on her neck, brushing her hair aside. The sensation almost made her flinch, but she managed a simpering smile.

“You know our names,” Riddler hissed into her ear. “And I _know_ I’ve seen you somewhere before. So, tell me.” Something with a cold edge slid underneath her jawline. “Before I slit your pretty throat. What’s your game?”

“What’s my game?” Barbara repeated softly, letting just a hint of mockery creep into her tone. She shot Oswald a look like, _can you believe him?_ before letting out a laugh. It was a high, carefree laugh that started light, started happy. But as her shoulders shook, the laugh got lower, rougher. Her teeth became bared, and her eyes widened like a predator’s. The laugh turned manic and unhinged, and both men instantly stiffened.

Penguin shrunk back into his seat, like he’d been scalded. The wide-eyed horror-stuck stare he gave her was the same one he’d give a viper found curled up on his desk. She heard the leather of his chair crackle beneath his white knuckles.

And Nygma? The sharpness disappeared from her skin. She could hear him step backward. One step. Two. Three. A pause. The sound of shallow, shattered breathing. Then his voice. “ _You.”_ And to Penguin, “It’s _her.”_

Penguin’s voice was raspy as he gasped out, “T-That’s impossible, Edward! She’s…she didn’t…”

“She’s _dead?”_ Barbara purred, lowering her chin to stare at the Penguin with wolf-eyes. “Well, I don’t know, boys.” She swept herself off the desk, sending a few dozen papers fluttering to the floor. When her heels met the rug, she leered up at Edward Nygma. “Turns out us _Keans_ are pretty  &*#% hard to kill.”

Nygma flinched hard, as Barbara let loose another predatory laugh. There were three things, she knew, that every two-bit thug and any mobster worth his salt in this city were afraid of. The Joker, the Bats, and the name Barbara Kean. If Bruce’s archives were right, Riddler and Penguin had even known her aunt personally—and likely had more reason to be afraid than just about anyone.

Then, almost on cue, she watched Eddie’s eyes widen in realization. His entire face went slack with it, as he seemed to take in her face for the first time. “Barbara, Barbara Pennyworth,” he mumbled under his breath.

“What?” Penguin spluttered.

“She’s Grayson’s little &!^$#. The one I told you about.” The Riddler almost snarled. “You’re…what? Her daughter?”

Barbara lifted one hand, letting the gold bracelets she’d borrowed from Selina jangle down her forearm. With a click of her tongue, she shot Eddie with a finger-gun. “I’m impressed, _Nygma._ Good eye.” She leaned back on the desk, practically lounging against it. “Glad they finally noticed something that _isn’t_ wrapped in red, hm? But I’m afraid to say, that _doesn’t_ mean you win the game.”

Nygma twirled the switchblade in his hand, letting it catch the lamplight. He almost seemed surprised when Barbara didn’t even flinch, but he should have known better by then, really. She smirked as he opened his mouth to say, “And why’s that?”

“Because… well, let’s just say, that’s not _exactly_ the name I had in mind...”

“What do you mean?” Nygma demanded, brandishing the blade. “Why are you here? What the #$%% do you want?”

Barbara raised an eyebrow. “Eesh. Now I see why they call you the _Riddler._ As to why I’m here—” She whirled around, planting her hands on the smooth desktop as she stared the Penguin right in his beady little eyes. He jumped a little, at the click of her nails on the wood, and she could have sworn she saw his Adam’s apple bob nervously. “Well, I think Penguin here has some idea.”

Cobblepot swallowed again. “I d-don’t know…I don’t know what you’re on about, girl. What—”

Barbara cut him off with a heavy, dramatized sigh. “Ozzie, Ozzie, Ozzie. The hit on Club Le Jardin? LiveWire? Encroaching on other mobsters’ territories and furthering your adorable little gang’s agendas—” She leaned in close, sticking her lower lip out as she simpered, “—even though my partner took the time and _specifically_ told you to stop?”

“Partner?” Penguin blustered. “What _partner?_ No one has told me to—”

He seemed to choke, and his eyes went wide like he’d taken a knife to the gut, but Barbara didn’t give him the time to finish that thought. Her voice was low, threatening, like the soft warning of a rattlesnake’s tail, growing louder and louder with each passing heartbeat. “You had _one_ simple job to do, Pengy. Run your little restaurant. Keep your big beaky nose where it belongs. No interference with the other gangs... Essentially, _be good._ And you couldn’t even do _that.”_ She snarled, grabbed a pen from the pile of papers. It was the fancy, old fashioned fountain kind, which made sense, given Cobblepot’s tendency towards the vintage.

Oswald shook his head. “I—"

Before he could even finish that thought, she slammed the sharp nib into the fleshy back of Penguin’s hand. Pinning it to the desk. Penguin let out an unholy shriek. Blood seeped from the wound, and the injured hand shook almost as hard as Oswald’s shocked breathing.

She didn’t see, so much as _felt,_ Nygma lunging at her. Barbara spun out of the way, skirt flapping in the air as Nygma dove past her. The tip of his switchblade was embedded in the desktop with a dull _thwunk._ He let out a frustrated roar. Ripped the knife out of the desk and slashed it towards her chest. Barbara hopped back, twirled, using the momentum to deliver a round kick to the side of Nygma’s head.

His forehead cracked against the desk with a sickening thud, and she yanked him up by the collar of his ridiculous suit before he even had the chance to recover. She met his eyes, and had just enough time to see the naked fear in Nygma’s green irises before she slammed his head down hard on the desk.

Sprawled on the floor, the Riddler wasn’t out cold. But he was stunned. Barbara snatched up his switchblade, twirled it thoughtfully, then used it to pick underneath one of her fingernails.

“Well,” she sighed, settling herself back down on the edge of the desk. Oswald was still panting, whimpering a little as his blood stained the documents he’d left out so carelessly. “Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get to the important questions. Ozzie, hon, how did you know that the GCPD would be busy with the Joker on the other side of town?”

“Hh…d-don’t…can’t make me tell you an— _hyUGHDH!”_

Barbara had reached over to twist the pen. More blood bubbled from the hole in Cobblepot’s hand, and he made a sound not previously heard anywhere else in nature. She let out a bored hum, and said, “I’ll let you try that again.”

“He…J-Joker…t—” Penguin took a few shaky gasps, blinking away the moisture beading at the corners of his eyes. “Told me he’d…be there. That place…and time. Our… _hk…_ employer arranged ev—”

Barbara looked up, feigning disinterest as she waited for him to finish. When that seemed to be it, she raised her eyebrows, bobbing her head absently. “Employer, hm? Eddie, is that the same employer who hired you, Firefly and Killer Moth to hit the gala a few weeks ago?”

Nygma groaned on the floor. Pulled himself to his knees as he carded his fingers through his gelled hair. As a result, inky tufts stood up like spikes, only serving to make him look even more unhinged as his beady eyes flicked up to hers.

“You &!^#%,” he gasped. “I’m going to hold you down and _gut_ you while—”

Barbara frowned. The knife flashed, and Nygma let out a pig-like squeal. His hands clapped over his nose, and she could already see red burbling out from the cracks between his shaking fingers.

Barbara wiped the blade on the folds of her skirt. She was pretty sure Selina would forgive the stain. And there _was_ a reason she’d chosen red tonight, after all. She clicked her tongue with a shake of her head. “Now. _You’re_ going to stay put, Eddie. Or the next one goes in your eye. Got it?”

He stared up at her through his bloody hands. Nodded.

“Perfect.” She spun the blade between her fingers expertly. “Now, do I need to ask every question twice, tonight? Are you boys really going to make me stretch the fun out longer?” Barbara lowered the knife and glowered at Nygma with a frightening intensity. “I’ll ask again. Same employer, yes or no?”

The Riddler hesitated. His pupils were blown and his gaze flicked between her, the knife, and Cobblepot, who was still whimpering over his hand. Too much of a coward to pull out the pen. Or do anything more than whine like a mangy dog. When Nygma settled back on Barbara, he swallowed hard. Then bobbed his head.

“Which probably explains your little get-together tonight,” Barbara mused. She rubbed the handle with her thumb, letting her fingernail trace its cracks and grooves. “Your _inventory review._ But how can I be sure? Let’s play a little game, where you both shout out the name of your employer at the exact same time. Sound fun?”

They glared at her. But she’d been fighting the Penguin and the Riddler since she’d gotten her first training bra. They were old Rogues, around since the days of unchecked mob authority and police corruption in Gotham. And you either lasted that long by beating your opponents to a pulp—or by licking their boots. If Barbara knew these two as well as she thought she did—and she _knew_ she did—they were the latter type. Easy to cave, eager to scurry off to a safe hidey-hole.

“I can’t hear you, boys,” she sang, lifting the knife meaningfully. “Ready, set—"

They both winced. Then, simultaneously:

_“Owls!”_

The rush of blood and adrenaline in Barbara’s veins turned to ice in the space of a second. The hand holding the knife lowered to the desk, and she swallowed hard. Then kneaded the inside of her cheek between her teeth.

Because they could make up some mob-boss or business tycoon to throw her off the scent—it was what she’d been expecting. Barbara had waited to hear them both shout out different names, thereby catching them both in their lie.

But not only was their answer the same…it was _that_ answer.

“Hm…no. That doesn’t add up,” she said, recovering quickly as she tipped her head back to stare at the ceiling. “Be _cause,_ Nygma, I specifically remember an Owl crashing the party after you did. Put Firefly in a coma. He’s _still_ in intensive care, isn’t he?” Her tone turned dark, and she lowered her chin to look down her nose at the quivering Riddler. “Why hire you to kill a list of party guests, only to stop you just before?”

Probably because Cal—the Court’s lookout—had gone rogue. But neither of these two idiots could know that.

Riddler could only shrug. She probably should have gone for something less inhibiting, like his shoulder. (Ah, well. Live and learn.) Still. It was his _nose,_ not his tongue.

She peeled herself from the desk, and sauntered over to where Eddie was crumpled on his knees. She bent down, letting the blood-red skirt pool around her like a stain on the carpet, and curled her fingers around his wrists.

“Why Grayson?” she demanded, forcing his hands down. The Court wanted Dick alive, from what Calvin had told her. It wouldn’t make sense to roast him to death, if they still needed the Gray Son of Gotham.

As Nygma’s hands lowered, she was greeted with the sight of the bloody slash she’d made across the bridge of his nose. It was crooked on his face, but perfectly streamlined. In any other circumstance, any other context, her mentor might have praised her for her finesse. But Bruce wasn’t here, thank goodness, to see the ribbons of red furling down Riddler’s face to drip from his chin.

“Answer me,” she snarled. “I know you can.”

He bared his pink teeth. But she knew he’d cave.

“Don’t know,” he groaned through his no-longer-pearly-whites. “They gave me a list and told me to take care of it.”

“Not good enough. But let’s switch gears.” She stood, sidestepping his pathetic attempt at a grab for her legs. One swift kick to the jaw sent him back down to the floor, a gasping puddle. “The Owls hired B-listers like you boys to, what, rock the boat? Keep the Bats distracted? Why bother?” She scooped the knife up off the desk, briefly grateful that Cobblepot hadn’t thought to go for it. “No, never mind that. The Court wouldn’t bother keeping the thugs on their payroll informed…”

Nygma visibly bristled at that. Cobblepot could only shiver and gasp, still babying his injured hand.

“So,” Barbara mused, flipping the knife into the air, before snatching it up again. “We’ll switch gears, ‘cause I’m curious. Any guesses, yet, as to who I really am?”

Penguin was still gaping like a landed fish, staring up at her through watery eyes. Nygma pulled himself upright, doing his best to stem the flow of blood with one hand as he said,

“Yes. You’re _her._ Barbara Kean, but…also… _”_ He let out a low, guttural bout of laughter. The kind that would have had Barbara concerned if she wasn’t holding a switchblade in her hand. Even so, the look of total triumph on Riddler’s bloodied face was enough to make her at least sit up and pay attention.

“You’re the _Batwoman.”_

The resulting silence in the air was thick enough to be sliced with a switchblade. But Barbara couldn’t help the smirk that curled at the corners of her lips.

Oswald gasped. “Then…that means that Grayson…”

“Is just a pawn in the Bats’ grand chess game,” Barbara sighed, waving her hand dismissively. She twirled a little on her heels, pacing. “Just like Bruce Wayne. You boys seriously think that Batman would let someone like Wayne go unprotected? After all the funding he’s provided for our little…crusade?” She flipped the knife again. Then again. Reveling in the confusion that blossomed on their faces.

“That’s where I come in, gentlemen,” she continued, swaying her hips. “The perfect little ‘ _in’._ Of course, Brucie’s never been into _younger_ women. Some kind of moral thing, I’d guess. But Grayson was perfect. Just the right age, and just close enough to Bruce that I can keep an eye on things for Batman.”

“Why tell us all this?” Riddler demanded.

“Because I feel like it,” she shot back with a shrug. Barbara let the end of the blade scrape across the desk as she paced. A thin white line appeared through the polished finish. A curled wood shaving spiraled up from the wound. “And because I knew exactly where those scheming little minds of yours would go. Yes, Barbara Pennyworth and Batwoman are the same person, boys. I’m what you would call a _contingency_ plan. But I’m not the only one we have in place. The second you think about telling anyone, well…things’ll just get that much messier. _For you._ Just ask Joker,” she added bitterly. “He already knows all of this. But I suppose that just leads me into my next question. _Where is he?”_

She threw the question into the air, not really caring who stopped to pick it up. And, if the answer was laid out in the open, she wasn’t sure what she would do with it. Go after the madman? Or avoid him at all and any cost?

There was a recurring nightmare that played in Barbara’s mind like a horror movie. One in which the Joker appeared at her front door, shot her in the spine. But instead of lying there, helpless as he carried out the rest of his torture, she leapt to her feet. Wrapped her hands around the monster’s pasty throat and squeezed until his face matched his tacky purple suitcoat. Some nights he thrashed under her grip before falling limp, eyes glassy and chest still. Others…she woke up.

Barbara had a difficult time deciding, after the fact, which were the good nights, and which were the bad.

It was Penguin who finally broke the heavy silence.

“We don’t…don’t know.” He panted, his free fingers hovering over the pen, as if debating whether or not to yank it out. He must have decided against it, because his uninjured hand fell flat against the desk, and he let out a defeated sigh. “He’s with the Court. But…but beyond that…we can’t be sure.”

“Fine.” Barbara was torn between relief, and apprehension. The Joker working with the Court of Owls was concerning enough, without the added mystery of his whereabouts. “Then tell me this. What else does the Court have planned? What are they making you do?”

Riddler tipped back his head, and laughter burbled through his bloodied lips. Barbara turned to watch him, unamused.

“Is something funny, Nygma?”

“Not a thing.” His grin was venomous, brow lowered and eyes narrowed. “We have no idea what the Owls are doing next. Their instructions come at intervals, along with our…salary. But I can tell you this much…” He flung the next words out with malice. “They’re gonna tear you to pieces!”

He collapsed into another fit of malicious giggling. Barbara frowned. Twirled the blade and listened to the satisfying _shink, shink, shink,_ until it sheathed itself. Without further comment, she strode past the desk, and stepped daintily over Nygma’s prone, shaking form.

Her hand was on the doorknob when she heard the words,

“Where are you going, Barbara, Barbara Pennyworth? We have so many more things to tell you!”

She huffed out a frustrated sigh. Turned the knob.

“You mean, you have just a few more minutes before the reinforcements Pengy just summoned come storming in. Don’t think I didn’t see your subtle little under-the-desk-button-press, there, Ozzie.” She spared them one more glance over her shoulder. “Just know this: Batman’s already warned Penguin to keep his beak clean. But let’s face it. Batman isn’t willing to go the same places I am, fellas. So consider your little partnership with the Owls _caput._ Otherwise, you deal with me.”

Nygma’s voice trailed after her as she turned away.

“I guessed your name, Baby Kean. Does that mean you’re mine now?”

Barbara opened the door. A blast of cold hit her skin, and she smiled wide. She turned one last time to bare her teeth at the bleeding men.

“Oh, boys, I only belong to one man, and _he’s_ of much higher caliber than either of you could ever hope to be.” Then she said, low and predatory. “No. If anything, _you_ are _mine._ So the next time you think of crossing the Bats, you’d better remember to check over your shoulder. And you should be very, _very_ afraid.”

Then without another word, she stepped out of the office and into the chilly air of the Iceberg Lounge.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Selina was well aware of the fact that her mission was pointless. Ivy’s and Harley’s, too. Even Helena, who was waving to the crowd as they applauded her, was merely an accessory to Barbara’s overall plan.

Because, while any added intelligence they might gather would be useful…Barbara’s was the only role tonight that was crucial for unravelling her own questions. Selina had suspected they were all merely along for the ride the second they’d flown up to the rooftop across from Club Le Jardin. But, when it came down to it, she was never one to say no to a Bat. Especially not Barbara. (Though, perhaps that was folly on her part…)

Selina weaved through the crowd, feeling a bit like a fish trying to swim against a strong current. (And if there was one feeling Selina hated, it was feeling like a fish.) A few lidded eyes fastened on her as she made her way past groups and huddles of socialites. Some widened slightly in recognition, having seen her at some Wayne gala or another. Others narrowed further for the opposite reason; she wasn’t one of them, and therefore, didn’t require more than a look of disdain.

Up on the stage, the music began a trilling, disconnected tune. Oddly haunting, yet very familiar. Selina recognized the song from the radio before Helena even set into the lyrics.

_“Found you when your heart was broke, I filled your cup until it overflowed. Took it so far to keep you close, I was afraid to leave you on your own…”_

A radio song, with added embellishments from the small symphony band to dress it up and make it appealing to the upper class. Selina might have sighed, if she weren’t worried about breathing too much around these airheads. Regardless, Helena’s voice _was_ a marvel. Where did Barbara find these girls, anyway?

She reached into her dress’s pocket discreetly. Selina would never attend a party like this without the proper attire—that is, the perfect sized compartments to hide…’misplaced’ items. Truly, the day pockets were added to evening attire was the most miraculous event in human history. Her fingertips brushed against the two silver disks in her pocket. One was missing—already placed—but that still left her two more targets.

 _“I said I'd catch you if you fall,”_ Helena crooned into the microphone, _“and if they laugh, then #* &% ‘em all. _

She’d isolated the disks’ frequency. Meaning that she alone would be able to record and interpret whatever she heard. Selina trusted Barbara Delphi with her life…but there were just some things she wasn’t willing to share without collateral. And she wasn’t sure she appreciated being kept in the dark, either.

_“And then I got you off your knees, put you right back on your feet, just so you can take advantage of me—”_

Selina spotted her first target. A woman in a layered blue gown, chatting with a few other equally-rich-looking fellows. A thin smirk pulled at her lips as she snagged a glass of champagne off a wandering waitress’s tray. With soft steps, she crept behind the group. Lowered the glass and flung it to the floor nearby.

Everyone in the immediate vicinity paused, heads whirling and twisting towards the source of the sound. Selina smoothly sauntered by, unclasping the fastening on the woman’s diamond necklace. Years of practice had lightened her touch; the woman barely even flinched. With a flick of her wrist, the disk was in place just below the socialite’s underarm. With a swift tuck, the necklace was hidden away inside of Selina’s beloved pocket.

“Too easy,” she whispered, then hummed as her eyes swept the room. This wasn’t a gala or a charity function. At those, Selina was expected to ‘behave herself’. But this was just a fancy nightclub, full of the rich and fat taking their extravagant pleasures. So why should Selina have any qualms about misbehaving?

But then, magnetically, her eyes latched onto a man across the room. And Selina’s world tilted.

_“Tell me how’s it feel, sittin’ up there? Feeling so high, but too far away to hold me—”_

“Excuse me,” Selina muttered to the people in front of her as she pushed through. One of the men spilled his drink all over himself— _good,_ she thought vaguely—and shouted a curse. A woman squealed as she was knocked aside. But Selina had only one goal, and she practically sprinted towards it.

The man turned away from the other socialites he’d been talking to. Rubbed a hand over his short beard as he looked around.

_“Name in the sky, does it ever get lonely?”_

Her heart was thundering against her ribs, and when his blue eyes met hers, it stopped completely.

_“Thinking you could li-i-i-ive without me, thinking you could li-i-i-ive without me. Baby, I'm the one who put you up there. I don't know why. Yeah, I don't know why—"_

And like lightning, he was at her side. Snatching another champagne glass from a passing tray with an expert stroke of his hand. He offered it to her with a debonair smile. And, for a moment, Selina wasn’t sure whether or not she would wind up dropping this one, too.

“Miss Kyle,” he said, as she struggled to hear him over the music. And the ringing in her ears. “I’m surprised to see you here, tonight. To what could I possibly owe the pleasure?”

The words were heavy on her tongue. “Mr. March. _Lincoln.”_

His smile was stiff, but he nodded, managing a chuckle. “Um, that is my name, yes. But—”

“What are _you_ doing here?” Selina hissed. Her fingers tightened on the stem of her glass. So tight she briefly feared it would shatter. “After _everything_. You don’t bother to call, you don’t even—”

“Selina,” March said, voice hushed. People around them were beginning to stare, startled at Selina’s volume, and he was trying to bring her back down to earth. “It’s…”

_“Gave love 'bout a hundred tries, just running from the demons in your mind. Then I took yours and made 'em mine. I didn't notice 'cause my love was blind—”_

Lincoln seemed to deflate. Sheepishly, his eyes flicked up to meet her gaze. “Selina,” he sighed again, “I’m so sorry about Bruce.”

“Oh, really? How long have you—?” she breathed. Tears stung at her eyes and she blinked the sensation away. She forced herself back together; this was not the time to fall into hysterics.

“Known? Not long. But—”

She took a step back. Then another. Swallowed, and it felt like swallowing cottonballs.

“Selina—”

She shook her head. The silver earrings dangling from her ears whipped against her neck, and she turned, stalking away. His footsteps followed after her, but she chose to drown them out in the sounds of the party around them. The chatter was heavy, and the music deafening.

_“You don't have to say just what you did. I already know—I know—I had to go and find out from them. So tell me how's it feel? Whoa-oh-oh!”_

She felt firm fingers latch around her wrist. Powerful, but gentle. Just the way she remembered them.

Selina whirled around, catching sight of Lincoln’s wide eyes. Then, like a flash, backhanded him across the face.

Anyone nearby looked up, startled by the _smack_ of hand against cheek. Gazes travelled between a man doubled over in pain, and a woman who was looking down at him with a mixture of agony and disgust. But this was shockingly regular at a venue like the Iceberg Lounge, and so the guests only paused for a few seconds, before going back to their idle chatter.

Lincoln groaned, blinking, and slowly pulled himself to full height. Selina wasn’t sure whether or not she could even believe the sadness on his face.

“We trusted you.” The words hurried out of her in a whisper. “And now because of you, Bruce is—” Selina paused, eyes fluttering shut as she wet her lips.

“Selina—”

Her eyes flashed open. “Do you have any idea,” she hissed, “what you’ve done? I know you’re with the Court, Lincoln.”

“I can explain—”

“Oh, I’m _sure_ you’ll try.” It came out a laugh, but the tears in her eyes gave her true feelings away. “But you have _no_ idea what you’ve let loose on this city. It’s about time you started realizing that your actions have consequences!”

She tore her wrist from his grasp, and stalked away. She saw a flash of red on the stairs that could only mean Barbara was finished with whatever plot she’d brought them here to enact. Just in time—Selina was more than ready to leave. But not before she threw over her shoulder,

“So, if you _do_ ever get the urge to come near me again— _don’t.”_

But Lincoln’s gaze was fixed somewhere past her, melancholy, heartbroken, or even wistful. Maybe all three.

_“Baby, I'm the one who put you up there. I don't know why, yeah, I don’t know why.”_

 

* * *

 

They ended the evening around Selina’s kitchen counter, nursing glasses of wine and chocolate milk. (Helena had found Selina’s special stash and insisted on sampling. Harley, however, had been more intrigued by the gallon of chocolate milk in the fridge. Barbara, ever the teetotalitarian, had opted to follow the clown princess’s lead.)

It was an interesting scene, to say the least. Five women, strewn over barstools, and evening gowns askew as they sipped gingerly from their glasses. Helena reached up and undid the pins in her hair, letting the waves fall around her shoulders.

“So,” she said, breaking the long silence. “That was fun.”

Ivy and Barbara gave indifferent hums of agreement. Selina stared deep into the plum-colored contents of her glass. Harley, though, was almost bouncing in place.

“I’ll say! They tried ta serve Pammy a salad, and I coulda _sworn_ that waitress was about ta get her head sliced off! And then there was this other fella, tried ta get my number, and Pammy was all ‘ _wham’_ right in his face and ‘ _she’s mine ya big galoot!’_ ” Harley threw her head back with a peal of laughter, while Pamela mumbled something about ‘never saying the word galoot in her entire life’.  “But we got our guys! Pammy pinned the waitress, and I got the chef!”

“Good work,” Barbara muttered. Her eyes were staring deep into the contents of her cup, as well. (Though, she may have just been contemplating _why_ she was drinking chocolate milk out of a wine glass.) She seemed troubled. Haunted, even. Selina studied her carefully, noting the droop to her shoulders and the heavy expression on her face. She glanced up to Helena, who seemed to be watching with equal concern.

“Babs?” The Huntress asked gently. One hand reached out, draping itself over Barbara’s. There was no reaction. “How’d it go?”

“Did you get Joker’s location?” Ivy demanded. She twisted her glass anxiously, eyes wide in a fit-to-kill look. “I’m ready to make that clown pay for everything he’s done.”

Barbara’s expression darkened, as her fingers tightened on the stem of her glass. “No. I didn’t.”

“Babs,” Helena said, this time with a little more steel. “What happened?”

Batwoman’s fingers crept into her hair, mussing the intricate curls as she looked up at her friend. Mouth twisting, she replied, sourly, “Nothing.”

Helena’s frown deepened. “Bull. $#!^.”

“Hel, leave it alone—”

Helena shot to her feet, marched around the counter, and spun Barbara’s bar stool so hard that the red-head swayed in her seat, almost toppling to the floor. Her fingers gripped at the counter for support, and she gasped. Then glared up at the Huntress with venom.

“Hel, I swear to—”

Helena’s fingers seized Barbara’s skirt, holding the folds up to the light. Selina set her glass down, eyes widening a little when she saw the dark stain. Under any other circumstance, she might have demanded to know where it had come from, or debated between paying for dry-cleaning and throwing the dress out entirely. But she’d been a Gotham native long enough to know a blood-stain on sight.

Huntress’s face paled. “Babs,” she gasped. “That’s—did he—?” Her eyes roved over Barbara’s face helplessly, mouth opening and closing as if she were struggling to breathe.

Barbara yanked the fabric out of Helena’s grasp. “It’s not mine!” she snapped. “It’s Riddler’s.”

“ _Nygma_ was there?” Ivy snarled. “That little—you should’ve let me have a piece of that two-faced—”

Harley clapped a hand over her mouth. “Careful Pammy. Cantcha see they’re in the middle of a fight?”

Barbara had been glaring daggers at Helena, but whirled on Harley in the blink of an eye. “We’re not fighting!”

“Uh, _yeah,_ we are!” Helena spun Barbara’s chair again, fingers tightening on the iron backrest. “Did you just march in there and decide you could handle two Rogues on your _own?”_

Barbara’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Last I checked, Hel,” she said, voice eerily calm, “I’m the &*##*$% _Batwoman._ I can handle a few B-listers _just_ fine on my own.”

Helena was in her face, now, and Selina followed through on the sudden urge to scoot her own chair away from the battleground.

“Please,” Helena moaned, “Tell me this isn’t about the Joker’s stupid package!”

“It’s not—”

“—because you _always_ get like this whenever he’s involved! I can’t stand it, Babs! You _should_ not feel like you have to prove something to yourself, just because some sicko sent you his face in a box—”

Barbara’s jaw dropped, and Helena’s mouth slammed shut. One hand fluttered to her lips, as she met Selina’s wide eyes, silently begging for help.

“It was his _face?”_ Barbara demanded, practically shouting the last word. She was on her feet in a flash, knocking Helena’s arm aside as she paced to the other side of the kitchen. “That &*$^*%# sent me his…”

She paused, one hand over her mouth, the other in a fist held to her stomach. As if she were holding back the urge to vomit. The kitchen went dead silent, as the other women watched Barbara with mild concern or confusion. The only sound left was Barbara’s shaky breaths, and the sound of Harley’s foot tap-tapping away at the rungs of her barstool.

Then, Barbara swallowed hard, tipped her head back with a sigh. Opened her eyes.

“I don’t have to prove anything,” she said firmly. Then whirled on Helena. “Alright? I _don’t._ I got info from Penguin and Riddler, we pegged who we needed to peg. I’d call that a successful night. Now, unless you ladies have anything else to share, there’s somewhere else I need to be. Like, _now._ ”

“What?” Selina demanded. “We still have to go through the audio files we—”

“I’m already late,” Barbara said, heading towards the door. She paused to scoop up the duffel bag with her uniform by the hat stand.  “Raincheck, alright, Sel?”

Helena cleared her throat. It was the only thing that made Barbara pause, fingers on the handle, and bag thrown over her shoulder.

“What?” she snapped.

Helena crossed her arms over her chest. She seemed torn between an annoyed scowl and a worried frown. “Babs,” she said softly, one more time. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” Barbara pulled the door open and stepped out.

It slammed so hard that Harley jumped a foot out of her seat. Then giggled, and went back to her milk. Selina shared a glance with Ivy, eyebrows raised, then reached into her dress’s pocket. With a soft thud, she laid the small device on the countertop. It was one of Barbara’s transmitters—the piece of equipment that would allow her to interpret the audio they’d gathered with the disks.

Helena recognized it first. Eyes wide, she breathed, “How did you—?”

“Barbara needs to be more careful with her things,” Selina replied with a shrug. She pressed a few buttons, and looked up at the other three women carefully. “But especially with her mouth. Have a listen.”

 _“Good evening, Ozzie.”_ Barbara’s voice came out tinny through the speakers. _“Nygma. To what do I owe the pleasure?”_

“You _bugged_ her?” Helena demanded.

“Yes.” Selina blinked. “Is that a problem for you?”

Helena pulled up a barstool and sat down hard. The clack of her elbows on the countertops made everyone wince, but Helena didn’t even hesitate before saying, “Not at all. I was hoping one of you ladies’d had the guts to peg her.”

“Then, let’s have a listen,” Selina purred. “Because I have the distinct feeling she’s hiding something.”

 _“Suppose I am,”_ Barbara’s voice replied.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a few phrases in this chapter that are in either Romani or German. I know neither of those languages well, so they might not be very accurate. But I wanted to capture the importance of language to Dick, and let him use that language to connect with others. If any of you know German or Romani, and notice that there’s something wrong with the translation, please let me know! I know from personal experience just how precious native languages can be, and including these phrases isn’t meant as any sign of disrespect. Just the opposite, in fact.
> 
> Romani Phrases:  
> Lăsa-mă în pace! – “Leave me alone!”  
> Du-te de aici! – “Go away!”  
> Đali džane romane? – “Do you speak Romani?”  
> Da, cikno – “Yes, a little.”  
> Mă numesc – “My name is”
> 
> German Phrases:  
> Sprichst du Deutsch, fraulein? – "Do you speak German, young lady?“  
> Aber niemand sonst tut – “No one else does.”
> 
> (These are the links to the songs used in this chapter:)  
> Sweet But Psycho by Ava Max: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XQec7eZ7P6o&t=0s&index=6&list=PLOvHipkPBBzpaE35g3MzBp0XevLySEk-U  
> Without Me by Halsey: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zcWRRQOaAeQ&t=0s&index=4&list=PLOvHipkPBBzpaE35g3MzBp0XevLySEk-U
> 
> Next chapter, we’ll see what happens when Babs joins the others at the circus…  
> Thanks for reading!


	25. Back to the Future

 

 

“I give you three seconds to let the _#$%%_ go of me before I blow your brains out, Bozo!”

Jason threw off the circus clown’s arm with a snarl, spinning away so fast he almost toppled over. His animalistic gaze darted between the offending harlequin and his wide-eyed siblings. Tim swallowed hard, then put up his hands in what he hoped was a placating, mean-you-no-harm gesture.

“Jay,” he said, very slowly, “This nice man is just doing his job.”

The time had come to meet up with Dick, Damian and the two time-travelers before the show. Tim had managed to track Jason and Stephanie down in the line for the tilt-a-whirl, where Steph had been doing her best to fight off tears while Jason muttered sweet nothings into her ear. Once he’d found them, Tim had led the duo back to the Big Top, which the crowds were already flocking towards in order to find the best seats. They’d made it three feet in the door before being accosted by one of the circus performers.

“Wanna balloon, kiddo?” The clown asked, now brandishing a limp red string in Jason’s direction.

Like a vampire confronted with a wooden stake, Jason shrunk back. Tim could have sworn he heard his brother hiss. “Shove it up your #$$!”

“Golly gee! _That’s_ not a very nice thing to say, little boy!”

“#*&% off!”

Tim figured they were about three-point-five seconds away from seeing Jason throw hands with the brightly dressed jester. It was lucky, then, that Stephanie chose that moment to sidestep her way into the line of fire, arms crossed, and looking downright murderous.

“Listen, Bozo—”

The clown tipped back his head and let out a high-pitched wheeze of laughter. The red paint around his lips stretched with his grin, making all three of them involuntarily wince. His getup was appropriately ridiculous; just a bunch of clashing colors and patterns mixed together into one kaleidoscopic headache. Baggy pants, giant shoes, comically large Mickey-Mouse gloves, and spiky orange hair that stuck out from his head like two traffic cones.

So, basically, Jason Todd’s worst nightmare personified.

“It’s Bobo!” The clown protested. He threw his arms out to the side and did a wobbly spin. “Bobo the clown, here to put a smile on your face!”

Stephanie, lips pressed together in a firm line, gave Jason a sideways glance. The Wayne brother in question was staring down the clown, eyes blown wide. Slowly, he reached into his leather jacket.

“Jason, no,” Tim gasped.

“Jimmy!”

The sound of Dick’s voice cut across the tent like a gunshot. All four of them looked over to see the brother in question swimming through the crowd towards them, leaving muttered apologies and ‘welcome to the Haly’s Circus!’’ s in his wake. It was enough to make Jason’s wandering hand screech to a halt, and Stephanie visibly relaxed once Dick stumbled into their small circle.

“Hey, guys!” He greeted them with a grin. Then, turned to the clown. “Jimmy, Bryan’s looking everywhere for you. Show starts in fifteen, remember?”

Bobo the clown instantly dropped his act. He rolled his eyes and gave a heavy sigh, deflating faster than one of his cheap balloons. “Eesh. He’s definitely on one ta’night, ain’t he? Thanks for the heads up, Grayson.”

“No prob,” Dick waved him off, and Jimmy the clown disappeared into the ocean of spectators.

Jason sagged against one of the steel support beams that held up the stands, and let out a hoarse sigh. It was long and shaky, like he’d been holding his breath in for an hour. Dick frowned over at him, eyebrow raised. Cautiously, he asked,

“Is he—?”

“He’ll be okay, wontcha, champ?” Steph poked his arm with a finger, face twisted with obvious concern, despite her cheery tone. Then, softer, “He’s gone, Jay.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Jason straightened, and stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. He seemed to be eager to brush off the whole incident, squaring up his shoulders and pasting on a neutral expression. One that quickly shattered into disbelief when he got a better look at Dick. “Whoa! What…the #$%%...are you wearing?”

Tim’s and Stephanie’s heads swiveled, zeroing on their brother’s get-up.

Dick’s face morphed into something that bordered between annoyance and resignation. He held up his arms, and let them take the costume in, silently welcoming their judgment. The leotard was black and form-fitting. The red panels up the sides and circling the legs in bands had a brave amount of sequins and gold embroidery. It reminded Tim vaguely of the old worn-and-torn Robin costume he’d seen in one of the glass cases at the Cave—only _way_ more sparkly.

“Dude,” Jason whispered, in awe. “I was so looking forward to giving you #$%% about your old circus nickname but this…” His eyes roved over the costume, taking it all in with reverent silence. A slow, sinister smile was creeping up his face. “This is better than I could’ve ever _hoped.”_

“Jay,” Dick sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Stephanie squealed. “Oh. My. Lanta. _Who did your eyeshadow?”_

Tim hadn’t thought Jason’s evil grin could grow any wider. He was wrong. “He’s wearing _eyeshadow?”_

“No, seriously, _who?_ And who did your contouring?” Steph seized their older brother’s arm with a hand. Her stare was almost frightening as she yanked him down, forcing her brother’s face closer for inspection.  “Dick. I need the name and contact information of the artist who did your face. _Now.”_

Tim felt bad for Dick, who was frantically looking between the three of them, and back the way he’d come, as if searching desperately for an escape. So he elbowed his way through the other two and said,

“Hey, when’s the show start?”

Dick’s face softened in relief. He straightened, then jabbed a thumb up at the stands behind him. “Just a few more minutes. I…actually need to head back, but Damian saved you all seats up near the top.”

They paused to glance up towards the nosebleeds, where sure enough, the Gremlin was crouched on the bench like a brooding gargoyle. He appeared to be reading something, shuffling in annoyance as people flooded past him to get to their seats. Tim glanced back down at Dick, who was trying to detach Stephanie with as much care as possible.

“Are you ready for tonight?” she asked, humming. Her eyebrows waggled for emphasis.

Dick paled. “I, uh—”

“Cause we found the _perfect_ spot. Just behind the circus tent? Where all the trailers and tents for the performers are set up? There’s this _adorable_ little spot with a couple’a picnic tables, and these string lights everywhere. _Super_ great atmosphere, and should be quiet enough if we manage to shuffle you two out right after the show. Sound good? Cause then—”

“Steph.” Tim put a hand on her shoulder. She paused, and glanced back at him with wide eyes. “Let him breathe, okay?”

The man in question shot Tim a grateful glance, then nodded.

“It’ll happen, Steph. But first, we’ve got a show to put on.”

And with that, their older brother disappeared into the crowd. Swallowed up before he could hear another word about ‘Operation Dibs’ or proposals.

Jason was still snickering to himself as they threaded their way through the throngs of people and climbed the stands. “Holy #$%%, he’s wearin’ a freaking _onesie.”_

They found Damian, and the six seats he’d managed to keep away from the greedy horde. When he caught sight of them, he frowned, and snapped his book closed. Before Tim could see the cover, he stuffed it away in his backpack. They all sat, Steph and Jason pressed together, and Tim on Damian’s other side.

“What’d we miss?” Tim asked his little brother softly. “Anything eventful?”

“It’s worse than you think,” Damian muttered sourly. “Grayson is being played.”

“What?” Steph bent in half as she leaned over. Her hair fell over Jason’s lap, but he didn’t seem to mind. His fingers carded through it carefully as he glanced at them with interest.

“What are you guys talking about?” Steph demanded again.

“By her,” Damian added, ignoring Steph completely. He pointed down towards a space between two of the stands. It must have been where the circus performers could come onstage and leave, because there was a wide flap in the tent that went who-knew-where. If he squinted, Tim could see two people standing by one side of the portal, chatting happily. They were much, _much_ too close to each other.

One was Dick. The other…

“Hey,” Steph said, frowning. “Isn’t that the lady from the magazine?”

Jason’s fingers went still in the waves of her hair. Tim watched him lean forward a little, squinting down at the pair with a hawkish gaze. The other three watched with tense silence as his jaw clenched, and his Adam’s apple bobbed.

“You’re right,” he told Steph. Then, pinching the bridge of his nose, he added, “But that’s not the only place we’ve seen her before.”

Tim frowned. “What?”

“The press conference.” Jason’s eyes were hard as he looked up at Tim, then refocused his gaze on their brother and the strange woman. “She was the chick all dressed up in blue who was wailing and whining about Dick. Remember?”

Tim felt like someone had touched a live wire to the base of his spine. He straightened, eyes flying open wide as he gasped, “Wait, she talked to Vale!”

Stephanie growled, clapping her hands over her face. Scornful mumbling filtered out through her fingers. Damian, though, could only sniff in disdain.

“Her name,” he told them, “Is Raya Vestri, and she is one of Grayson’s fellow aerialists.” His scowl twisted as he added, “She has been making advances upon Grayson all day. I watched her kiss him—”

“ _What?”_ Stephanie squawked.

“—and touch his behind during their practicing—”

“ _What?”_ everyone demanded. The spectators nearby glared at them, but the three Wayne kids were far too focused on their youngest brother to care. Stephanie and Jason were both leaning in so close that they were in danger of slipping off the bench. Tim could feel his fingernails digging into his knees through the denim of his jeans.

“—and, worst of all, Grayson has done absolutely _nothing_ to rebuke her advances.” Damian crossed his arms tightly over his chest, and tilted his chin up. “He laughed like it was some odd joke, and, granted, _did_ seem to be somewhat uncomfortable, but…well, it is worrisome.”

“ _Worrisome_ would be an understatement, little bro,” Stephanie muttered, looking about ready to punch someone. Tim scooted away a bit, just as a precaution.

“Ditto,” Jason added under his breath.

Tim turned his head to watch the pair down below. Now that he knew to look for it, he could see the woman’s—Raya’s—hands lingering on Dick’s arms, his back, as she spoke to him. Based on body language alone, she was clearly flirting, and Dick was reluctantly going along with it. If Tim squinted, he could tell his older brother was uncomfortable and hesitant, but…still. Dick wasn’t fighting it. And Tim couldn’t help but wonder why.

“—I think that we can all agree that there is only one course of action, here,” he heard Damian say gravely. “We must kill her.”

Stephanie’s hand shot across Jason’s chest to clap over Damian’s mouth. The nearby audience members were staring with wide eyes and open mouths. Jason laughed nervously.

“Eh,” he said, “He joking. Kid’s always been a little drama queen.”

Damian made an indignant sound behind Steph’s hand. But the other spectators seemed mollified, some scooting a little farther away from the small cluster of Waynes. Into his little brother’s ear, Tim hissed, “We’re not killing _anyone,_ okay? And you gotta remember that there are other people who can _hear us.”_

Damian glared up at him, but nodded. Reluctantly, Steph lowered her hand and offered her two cents.

“He’s _just_ about to _propose!”_ she whispered frantically. “What the #$%% is he thinking?”

“Maybe cut him some slack,” Jason replied, voice lowered to match her volume. “We don’t really know the whole story yet. He could be working some kinda angle—”

“Grayson _did_ mention something about investigations…” Damian mused, shrugging.

“See?” Jason leaned back on the bench, hands curled over his knees as he let out a puff of air. “That’s probably all it is. Now let’s just sit back, enjoy the show, and worry about all of this $#!^ later, okay?”

“Well, fine.” Steph slumped onto Jason’s shoulder, and looked down at the tent floor. The lights began to dim, giving way to one spotlight focused right on the center ring. A man was striding out into the center, dressed up in a bright red tailcoat, with a top hat that was bigger than Tim’s hopes and dreams. “But where’s Babs?”

“Great question,” Tim muttered. He was half glad that his older sister was missing, though, considering the scene going on below between her boyfriend and his…co-worker? Fellow performer? Barbara didn’t need to see that, and the press gathering towards the front of the stands didn’t need to see her reaction. Their family had been in one tabloid too many, thanks to the Vulture Lady and her nosing. Still, Tim gave the empty spot at his side a meaningful glance. Then noticed the other two, vacant and obvious amongst the dense crowd around them. “Hey. Anybody seen Terry and his bigger friend?”

 

* * *

 

Raya wrapped her fingers around his wrist and pulled him backstage.

The pre-show chaos was as familiar to Dick as the sound of his own breathing. People rushed through the narrow, darkened spaces. Everything smelled musty and earthy, like paint and animals and dust and sweat. Somewhere, a few of the ladies had dabbed on perfume, and the scent mingled with the rest. Bodies pressed and brushed together in the familiar way of family and blood. Costumes were lovingly adjusted and makeup applied with swiftness and care. The whisper of lighthearted jabs and well-wishes in a myriad of languages rustled in the air. It was a buzz that shivered in Dick’s veins, and it brought an unexpected smile to his lips.

It was warm, and dark, and comforting _._ But Dick had the sense that he should not be stealing away into dark corners with a girl who was definitely _not_ Barbara. He had to brush away the nostalgia long enough to get his bearings. Dick suspected that if he didn’t…he might just do something he’d later regret.

Raya spun him around, and inspected his face. With a wry grin, she barked out a few words in Romani, and Sidra appeared nearby with a few makeup brushes and pencils.

“Please, _vă rog, Tanti Sidra!”_ Dick laughed, sliding easily into his mother tongue as the older woman smeared his face with powder. “That’s enough!”

Sidra replied in kind. “It’s enough when I say it’s enough, Richard. Now be _still!”_

The sound of his name with a Romani accent, and the sounds of words in his native language sent his mind wandering down another nostalgic path. Somewhere light and happy, taking him back to when he was only up to Sidra’s elbow, still learning how to walk on his hands.

“Ach! Get that dopey smile off of your face, child! You’re moving too much!”

“He’s fine, Siddy,” Raya chided, grinning up at him.

The brush fell away from his face, and the old woman declared him ‘acceptable’ before toddling off. Now, he and Raya were left standing alone—or as ‘alone’ as one could possibly be when a dozen performers were dodging through this part of the tent every few seconds. Aside from their footsteps and harried breathing, and the occasional curse as Sidra accosted another victim, this little corner was quiet. Secluded. Dick edged towards the flap that would take them to a more…public part of the tent. But Raya moved to block his path.

“I still can’t get over it.” She spoke the Romani words softly. Her voice broke the quiet like a baby bird breaking from its shell. Quiet, halting, and yet persistent all the same. “How much you’ve grown since we lost you.”

Dick bit the side of his cheek. “You too, Rai. You’re...” His voice trailed off awkwardly as he fought to think of something to respond with. “…older?”

She hummed a little chuckle, shoulders shrugging. “Yeah, well. Some things haven’t changed.”

“Is that right?”

“Mm-hm.” Her eyes flicked up to his, glowing in the warm light filtering through the tent walls. “You’re still pretty clueless when it comes to certain… _cues_.”

 “Clueless?” He took a step back. “Cues?”

“Yes.” She raised an eyebrow, smirking.

Someone entered their section, hand lingering on the flap as they pushed through. Dick recognized the top hat and the tailcoat instantly. But the man wearing them…wasn’t who he expected.

“Bryan?” he demanded, back in English now.

Bryan Haly nodded, then turned to Raya. Dick could only guess at the meaning of the glower the ringmaster’s son was shooting in her direction. But Raya seemed to understand it well enough. She straightened a little, squaring her shoulders, and managed a thin smile as she asked him, “When’re we on, Bry?”

“In ten.” Bryan glanced back at Dick. “Think you’ve got the routine down?”

Dick’s mouth opened, then closed. Gaping like an idiot before he could respond with a brief, “Yeah, but…where’s Jack?”

Bryan once again shot a meaningful frown Raya’s way, then clipped. “Couldn’t make it. He got held up in traffic.”

“But Jack always—"

Bryan’s mouth twisted into a snarl. “Look, Grayson. Dad’s not coming tonight, okay? He’ll be here soon, but for now? I’m running the show.” His eyes narrowed. “We gonna have a problem?”

Dick frowned, but held up his hands. Slowly. Placatingly. “No. No problems, Bry. Just…I’ve missed the old man.”

Bryan nodded. He seemed to have stopped listening somewhere around the word ‘no’. Without another comment, he turned, and stalked towards the next tent flap and out towards the center ring. The show was about to begin, and even from in here, Dick could hear the crowd hush with silent expectation. It was one of his favorite parts of waiting backstage. He’d loved, as a kid, hiding from his parents between the different performers. The others would gasp and pretend that he was missing or invisible. _(Where’s little Dickie? Has anyone seen him? Do you think Zitka carried him away on her back?)_ He’d giggle, which should have given him away, but everyone was always too indulgent to acknowledge it. His favorite place to steal away to was closest to the flap, listening to the sounds on the other side of the canvas. The gasps, and cheers. The _‘ooh!’_ s and ‘ _aah!’_ s of their audience. He’d grin, fingers pressed to the rough tent material. Practically hopping in place as he waited for Mr. Haly to announce in a booming yell, “ _And now, the act you’ve all been waiting for, ladies and gentlemen! The Flyinnnnnggg Graysons!”_

And his family would rush to the tent flap, scoop him up with a few whispered jabs and chastisements. But then, everyone would be smiling, as they all stepped out—

“Are you excited?”

Raya’s voice made him start. But, carefully, Dick nodded, and couldn’t keep a grin from slipping up his face.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s been so long. I just wish…”

_I wish they were here to do this with me. Magda would be married by now, probably. Johnny might even be finished up with that degree he always wanted.  Aunt Karla, Uncle Ricky, and Mom and Dad might be retired. Watching from the stands, or helping backstage. But at least they’d all be together…_

“I know,” Raya said gently, as if she could hear his racing thoughts. “But they’d be so proud of you, Dickie.”

He felt a warm pressure on his cheek. Raya’s hand. Slowly, she eased his face around. Now, his eyes were pulled away from the tent flap, and towards Raya’s soft gaze.

“I know I am,” she whispered.

And then she was kissing him again.

The truth was this: Dick had had a crush on Raya since he was five. The girl spent so much time with his family, learning from his mother, playing with Johnny and Magda. Younger him had loved her coppery hair and her bright movements every time she flipped off the bar or stuck a landing. When he was seven, and she was ten, they sneaked out behind his family’s trailer to share a crumpled bag of popcorn one of them had snagged from a vending cart. They kissed, but it was before they knew what that really was. What it really meant.

Dick had always had a soft place in his heart for the girl from the circus. Maybe that was why he didn’t pull away. Maybe that was why he found his hands at her waist, even as his mind blanked completely of all coherent thought.

It didn’t mean anything. Just like when they were children, exchanging a quick peck before morning rehearsal.

It didn’t have to mean anything.

 

* * *

 

Amusement mile, as always, was packed.

But as the sun and temperature both dropped, the crowds began to thin. The only people who lingered were those armed with thick coats, gloves and scarves, and the ‘give-em’-#$%%’ attitude every Gothamite seemed to carry like a badge of pride.

Tonight, the sky was dark and starless, and so cold that Barbara could see her breath pushing clouds in front of her face. The air itself seemed to be frozen, stiff and chill enough that walking towards the circus tent felt like wading through a frozen pond. Her legs chafed together, numb from the cold, and skin tingling. She really should have stopped by the manor for a change of clothes, but it was too late for thoughts like that, now.

The Big Top itself glowed warmly. So warmly, that its enticing red and white stripes drew the carnival-goers like moths to a big, loud, buttered-popcorn-scented flame. Every other attraction at Amusement Mile glittered and shone, but there was something more _real_ about the light around the circus tent. Something more genuine and inviting.

But Barbara was barely ten feet from the entrance, when the flaps flipped shut. The glow lessened, as the lights from inside were trapped by the thick canvas. She could feel the sudden cold, displaced by the space heaters lining the tents interior, rush back around her full force.

She shivered, and pulled a little desperately at her peacoat. Thank goodness for the stash of outerwear she kept stowed under the seat of her cycle.

The other prospective spectators sighed, offered muttered promises to their children or companions that they’d ‘see the circus next time’, and wandered away. Barbara lingered by the tent flap, and reached out to push it aside. Her fingertips just barely brushed the canvas when she heard a voice shout,

“Miss! Admission is closed!”

Barbara whirled around. Spotted a young man stalking towards her. He wore a uniform she recognized from the Haly’s Circus staff. The way he moved was harried and purposeful, and she watched him advance through lidded eyes.

“Is there a problem?” she asked him dryly.

He held up a hand, scowling. “We’re sold out, ma’am.”

“I have a ticket.”

“Wonderful,” he snapped, and she got the sense that he didn’t think it was ‘wonderful’ in the slightest. The hand stretched out towards her, fingers curling and uncurling expectantly. “Can I just see it, please?”

“Oh.” She blinked. “Well, um, I—don’t have it with me.”

“Oh.” His head tilted mockingly to the side. “Well. Um. I guess you can’t go inside, then. We have another show on Friday at two, then again at nine-thirty. Please grace us with your presence then.”

Barbara scowled. Squared her shoulders. “Sir, let me inside.”

“No can do.”

“I know Dick Grayson—”

“So does everybody else,” the man said with an eyeroll that made her blood boil. “He’s _on_ the program.”

“I’m his girlfriend.”

“I’m _sure_ you are, miss! Now, please, don’t make me get security.”

That was the last straw. It was too cold for this kind of $#!^. Barbara’s mouth fell open, and she made ready to rip into this man with everything she had. Demand he let her in, insist on seeing Dick to corroborate her claims, maybe put him down with a quick jab to the neck—

Then she caught sight of someone else over the man’s shoulder. A girl, short and shadowed against the tent’s homey glow. Her hand came up in a wave, beckoning Barbara forward as if offering a secret.

“Excuse me? Are you listening to me, ma’am? I can call them right now—”

“You know what?” Barbara said softly, eyes snapping back to the staff member. “You’re right. I’ll have to catch the show another time. Maybe when _you’re_ off duty.”

The man sniffed, glowering up at her with barely-disguised contempt. “Fine. Then, beat it.”

Barbara tilted her chin up, and marched around him, pausing only to look back as he hurried off, then glanced back up. The spot where she’d seen the girl was vacant now, but a person of the same height and build was slipping around the curve of the tent. Towards the back.

Barbara hurried forward, heels clacking on the wooden slats of the boardwalk. Her skirts brushed the canvas as she slipped between the tent and the metal guardrail. She’d reached the backside of the tent, revealing a stretch of smaller tents and trailers set up in a semicircle. Unlike the Big Top, these were unlit and darkened. Vacant. Most likely where the performers lived during their stay in Gotham, but the performers were obviously elsewhere. She picked her way past a cluster of picnic tables and wooden crates, and glanced around carefully.

“Hello?” she called out, softly. “Is anyone out there?”

There was no reply. Barbara felt a shiver of panic run up the back of her neck, and spun on her heel, surveying the darkness for any potential threats. This felt too strange. Like a setup—or maybe a setup for a slasher flick.

Somewhere, a cat yowled, and Barbara jumped a little.

 _Stupid,_ she scolded herself, _Now, just get back to the entrance and text Tim or Jason. They should be able to—_

Barbara leapt three feet in the air when she felt a hand on her wrist. She spun around, leg flying up in an arc. It didn’t make contact.

Instead, the kick flew over her assailant’s head as they ducked. Barbara stumbled, and felt the whip of a ponytail against her cheek as the stranger spun around her, grabbing for her other wrist. She brought her knee up sharply towards the stranger’s gut, but they hopped back and out of the way.

“Hey,” they whispered. It was a girl’s voice.

Barbara jabbed for her shoulder. But with both hands trapped in a grip that was stronger than she’d expected, the most she got was a light hit. The girl lifted Barbara’s arms as she spun around behind her, pinning them against the small of her back.

“Who are you?” Barbara demanded, craning her neck to catch a glimpse.

“Your ticket in?” The girl released her hold, and shoved Barbara forward, almost playfully. “Well, sort of.”

Barbara whirled around, fists raised, shoulders lined up with her hips. Ready to land a fist in the girl’s teeth. But then she paused.

Her hands were raised in the air, but not to fight. The girl was showing Barbara her palms; a gesture of surrender. Slowly, Barbara’s muscles relaxed, and she took in the newcomer’s appearance critically.

Her sleek, dark hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and it fell over one shoulder, the ends curling softly beneath her chin. Barbara noted that the girl’s skin was darker than hers; a light olive tone that reminded her of Dick’s.

But there was something…different about her clothes. She wore ripped black jeans, and combat boots. A robin’s-egg blue blouse peeked out beneath a leather jacket, complemented by a silver chain with a bird charm that hung from her neck. Really, the outfit wasn’t unusual. It was something Barbara might have worn.

But it was… _so much_ like something Barbara might have worn, that it put her off for a few seconds. Come to think of it, that charm looked a little familiar…

“Who are you, really?” Barbara asked again, this time a little more soft and unsure.

A playful smile lit up the girl’s whole face. It was blinding in brightness, and almost made Barbara stumble backward. Because _that_ even seemed familiar, too, as if Barbara had seen it a hundred times before.

“Doesn’t matter,” the girl chirped. “For now, we’ve gotta get a look at the circus. Follow me?”

She spun on the rubber heel of her boot, waving Barbara onward as she stepped towards the tent. Barbara watched her walk with a slackened jaw; the girl’s footsteps were smooth and fluid, like a dancer’s. Effortless and floating.

“I’d say it does matter,” Barbara muttered, trailing behind carefully. “Since you actually managed to _pin_ me thirty-seconds ago.”

The girl glanced over her shoulder. “What, like it was hard?”

Her fingers trailed over the canvas, searching, and Barbara couldn’t help raising one eyebrow skeptically. As if she could read her mind, the girl snickered, and looked up at her with a grin.

“Patience,” she sang softly. Then found a seam in the fabric, and pulled at it. A tear appeared, threads shivering as it grew wider and wider. The hole was big enough now that both of them could peek through and see the show unfolding inside.

They’d picked a spot that was uninhibited by the stands of spectators, so the view was amazing. Barbara watched horses canter around the edges of the center ring, positively dripping in glittering tassels and flowing ribbons. With every step, bells fastened around their fetlocks jingled merrily. There was a man holding a silver ring, coaxing a lioness to leap through and land gracefully on the other side. Its muscles tensed and moved beneath a golden pelt, and Barbara pressed closer, feeling the fingers of heat brush invitingly against her skin. The smell of roasted peanuts and buttery popcorn floated out into the cold air like an invitation.

And then the man in the center of the ring was announcing the aerialists. If she craned her neck a little, Barbara could see the trapeze. She could feel the other girl next to her move for a better view, as well, and they both watched with wide eyes as the routine unfolded.

Dick grinned, waving to the crowd as his name was announced. Barbara could hear a wave of whispers fill the air as old-timers recognized the name ‘Grayson’, and everyone else struggled to place their senses of familiarity.

And then? He leapt. _Soared._ Down through the air, body streamlined and movements as fluid as falling water. His dark hair fluttered around his eyes, and his face…Barbara resisted the urge to gape. Because his expression was the brightest, the most relaxed, and the most carefree she’d seen it in a _long_ time. Like a ray of sunshine. Like an open flame. Something warm, and open, and… _happy._ He caught the hands of another acrobat, and swung up. Let go. Stiffened his posture as he flipped and spun through the air, hands tucked against his chest, before going liquid once again.

Dick’s arms waved gracefully, his back arched playfully. Every movement was a game, every gesture a performance. And Dick was born to perform. Barbara couldn’t tear her eyes away. The man she loved was in his _element._ The air.

And when he flew, unfettered by clumsy Kevlar wings, Dick wasn’t Batman. He was Nightwing again. He was everything he _loved,_ again. Unweighted. Untethered. _Free._

He tipped his head back to laugh, and Barbara’s heart stuttered in her chest.

“Like what you see?” the girl whispered.

Barbara turned her head to respond. Then paused, caught off guard by the girl’s piercing eyes. Exposed to the light, they shone blue. A shocking blue, like a neon sign or an electric spark. The rest of her face was half illuminated, and half cast in shadow from the tent’s balmy light. Barbara opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Because she knew those eyes.

“Please,” she whispered. “Who are you?”

This time, the third time, the girl didn’t shake her head or shrug off the question. She blinked, once, twice, nibbling her lower lip. Then, softly,

“My name’s Marie.”

Some relative of realization sparked in her mind like a blown circuit, though Barbara wasn’t sure why. Or what had caused it. But the second she felt it, she looked at the girl from a different perspective. A whole new paradigm. It was like looking into a snow globe that had just settled.

“You’re…one of them.” Barbara whispered. “You’re from the future. Aren’t you.”

Not a muscle on the girl’s face twitched, but her eyes still widened. “Um…yes.”

“You’re…” Barbara leaned away slightly, squinting as she tried to get a better glimpse from a better angle. “You seem familiar. How old are you?”

Marie blinked again. “Twenty-one.”

Just a few years younger than she was, but the girl was so short, Barbara wouldn’t have guessed it. “ _Do_ we…know each other? From your time?”

A smirk tugged at one corner of Marie’s lips. “You could say that.”

It was then that Barbara noticed the bloody scrape just below Marie’s left eye. She reached out, not fully understanding why she felt the pressing _need_ to, and laid a finger just under it, gently as she could manage. “What happened?”

Marie didn’t seem to be put-off by the physical contact. Not in the slightest. With an aborted huff of laughter, she breezed, “Ah, got into a fight with a coupl’a idiots. No big deal, or anything.”

“What idiots? Were they trying to hurt you?”

Barbara was…surprised at the amount of concern in her tone. She could hear it in her voice, feel it in her bone marrow, even. Some unexplainable, inexplicable urge to _protect_ and _shelter_ this girl in front of her. Even though they’d met literally ten minutes before, Barbara had the feeling that she’d take a bullet for her. Was she under some sort of mind control? Queen Bee had similar effects on her—the Team had banned Barbara from any missions where the woman might be present, for good reason. Was this…feeling…something similar?

It…didn’t feel like it was.

But the girl didn’t seem to mind the concern. Instead, her face lit up with something Barbara couldn’t even begin to identify. It was happy, and warm, and as Marie reached up to wrap her fingers around Barbara’s wrist, she felt some rush of instinctual…joy?

“No,” Marie said softly. “No one was trying to hurt me. Just had to break them up. That’s all.”

Music was booming from inside the circus tent, but Barbara’s heartbeats felt louder than any drum or trumpet. Marie blinked, and Barbara could see how moist her eyes were all of a sudden.

“Hey.” Marie’s whisper was soft, and vulnerable in a way that made Barbara’s heart lurch. “Can I…” She swallowed, looked away. Towards the ocean, back to the show inside the circus tent…down…up…then finally, she met Barbara’s gaze. Her words came out in a desperate rush. “Can I hug you?”

Barbara’s arms were already open. Marie collapsed into them with a sigh, wrapping her own around Barbara’s ribcage like a vise. The embrace was warm, and soft, and so familiar, that for a moment, Barbara wasn’t so sure that she and this girl _hadn’t_ met before. She ran her hand up and down the ridges of Marie’s shoulder blades, feeling the smooth leather under her fingertips.

Marie let out a shaky sigh. “I’m sorry,” she said into Barbara’s coat. “This time-travel deal is just so…draining, y’know? When you’re not sure if you’re ever gonna get back home, and sometimes all you want is your mom, and—”

She cut off with a choked gasp, and Barbara’s hand stilled on her back.

“What?” Barbara whispered. Her fingers had caught on a small rip in the leather. It was tiny, and jagged, like it had been caught on something sharp. All Barbara could focus on was that rip—and the word _mom_ playing over and over in her mind on a maddening loop.

She recognized the tear, because maybe a month or two ago, she’d worn the same jacket and caught it on a chain-link fence. She’d been out running drills with Stephanie—some parkour exercise they did in their civilian clothes. The crowds always loved it, and it was a great way to practice moving through the city by ground as fast as possible.

This leather jacket was hers. The charm around Marie’s neck was hers—right now, an exact copy was probably sitting in a box on her desk back at the Manor.

This girl…was hers. Wasn’t she?

“Marie,” Barbara breathed, and once again felt that same brush of familiarity.

“Oh _slagit,”_ Marie muttered, burying her face in Barbara’s shoulder.

Barbara pulled out of the embrace, cupping the girl’s face gently, lovingly, in her hands. Warmth exploded in her chest as she suddenly felt the urge to cry. Marie was crying, too.

“Are you…?” Barbara breathed. “Am I…?”

“ _Marie!”_

“MG? MG, where are you?”

The snap of voices burst through the air. The two women sprung apart, whirling around towards the for people turning the corner of the tent. Barbara recognized the first two as Terry and Nightshade, both dressed out in their civvies. But they were joined by a tall flannel-wearing man, and a girl Barbara didn’t recognize. Her outfit was simple—black and yellow tank top under a heavy coat, skinny jeans, combat boots and a black armband—and yet they were...well, was there an _opposite_ of out-dated? Her neon-pink hair was buzzed close to her scalp. She let out a cry when she saw the pair kneeling by the hole in the tent.

 _“Marie!_ What the _#$%%_ are you doing back here?” She rushed over. Marie gaped up at the newcomer as the girl reached down and seized her wrists, yanking her to her feet.

“Max,” Marie said carefully. “I was just—”

“ _Do not_ run off like that again! We lose you back here, we lose you forev—”

Barbara met Older Damian’s piercing look with raised eyebrows. He nodded once, then rumbled out a soft, “Hello, Delphi.”

Barbara slowly got to her feet, heels sliding a little underneath her as she struggled to find her footing. But once she did, she crossed her arms over her chest and said, “Hello, Dami. I didn’t think you’d be bringing friends.”

“Neither did I,” he said, mouth twisting. Barbara noticed that he was sporting a black eye, and when he moved his jaw to speak, she could hear soft crackling. Next to him, Terry was scowling. The bottom half of his face was streaked with blood.

“What happened to _you_ two?” Barbara’s eyes widened. She took a half step back, noting the heated glare exchanged between Nightshade and the future Batman. The girl with pink hair—Max—let out a mighty sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose. The other man—who was even taller than Damian—rolled his eyes skyward. Even Marie breathed out a soft, indignant huff.

“Remember those two idiots I mentioned?” she stage-whispered.

A line appeared between Barbara’s brows as she looked back and forth between the time travelers.

“ _You_ were fighting? Why?” she demanded. “You’re both Bats. You’re all on the same side, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, well, apparently _not,”_ Terry snarled, eyes snapping up to his mentor. His posture stiffened, hands curled into fists.

A warning sound hummed out of Max’s mouth. “Terr, if you start up again, so _help_ me, I will drop-kick you off this pier.”

“Right after I kick your slagging teeth in,” Marie growled. “You hear me, Terrence Wayne-McGinnis? _Enough.”_  Barbara watched her arms cross over her chest, glare heated and mouth twisted into a snarl. At the sound of the small girl’s voice, she noticed the other time travelers’ spines straighten as they jumped to attention. All except Damian, who seemed largely unaffected. Marie plowed on, jabbing a finger in each man’s direction. She started with Nightshade. “ _You_ messed up this whole thing, D.”

Damian scowled. “Mar—”

“I don’t care how justified you feel. If you hadn’t gotten involved, our plan _would have worked._ No offense? But you kinda ruined everything.” Marie jabbed a finger in his direction. “Thousands of lives are on _your_ head.”

Damian recoiled, clearly stung.

“That’s what I’m saying—” Terry started. His voice suffered sudden death when Marie focused the full heat of her glower on him.

“And as for _you_ ,” she snapped. “D has a point. This time period was never the plan and you _know that._ So stop trying to spoil things, like it’ll fix what _you_ failed.”

“I didn’t fail!” Terry protested. “I was sabotaged!”

“Yeah, Terr. And water’s wet. Damian’s a massive ego. Oh, and the sky is blue! But you don’t hear the clouds complaining!” Marie threw her hands up in the air. “Now that we’re done stating the obvious, it’s time to move forward. We have _very_ limited time until someone from HQ sends Booster’s little time-robot after us. Okay? So in the meantime, we regroup, we wait, and when the time comes?” Her eyes were steely as she focused on each one of her four companions. “We go back home and figure out a way to avenge what we lost.”

The others nodded. Barbara noticed a shift in their resolve, like someone had flipped a switch to send electrical currents racing through them. Spines straightened even further, jaws clenched. They appeared almost deadly in the half-light of the cold evening. Ready and eager to fight. But while she was tempted to wonder about some of the things she’d just heard, only one stood out in her mind.

“That…that thing you said. About the clouds,” she said softly, carefully. Weaving her way through what she was sure could be a potential conversational minefield.

Damian’s eyes widened, ever so slightly. The others shifted a little, but it was the other man, the stranger in flannel, who managed a cautious, “What?”

“’The sky is blue’,” Barbara said softly, brow scrunching a little in confusion. “’But you don’t hear the clouds complaining’. _Dick’s_ said that…before. He…told me his father used to say it?”

The others went dead still, but Barbara continued. She squeaked a little. “So if I’m your…then is _he…?”_

Damian seemed to lock onto Marie like a heat-seeking missile. “What did you tell her?”

“Nothing!” Marie hopped back out of the range of fire, hands raised to the sky.

“Grayson, you _hypocrite!”_ Terry growled. Then paused, eyes wide as the others whirled on him, glares heated and deadly. He frantically tried to backpedal, stuttering over his words as he attempted, “Uh, did I say--? I meant—um. Grace. Yeah. Her name’s Grace—“

“My name’s _Marie,_ you dipstick. She already _knows that.”_

A hand clapped over Damian’s face as he let out a long, weary sigh. But Barbara’s head was imploding.

“Grays—” Barbara clapped a hand over her mouth, and swiveled to stare down Marie. Her _daughter._ Her daughter with…with _Dick._

The girl in question looked up at her sheepishly, seemingly torn between a smile and a cringe. But Barbara couldn’t help the sudden grin that tugged at the corners of her lips. Warmth rushed through her entire being, and when she felt a sudden prickling behind her eyes, she bit her lip to keep the tears at bay.

“This…” the flannel-clad stranger muttered, too loudly. “This seems like a family thing. If you want, I can—”

Damian’s hand seized his, and he clasped it tightly. Growling, he spun his head around to level a BatGlare at the man as he said, “ _You_ are not going anywhere.”

“Yeah, Supes,” Max chimed in with a sigh. “Significant others don’t get a pass on family awkwardness, _believe me._ ‘Sides. You’re practically a member of this family already, so—”

“Supes?” Barbara demanded, inspecting the stranger through a new red, yellow and blue lense. The shaggy black hair, the five-o-clock shadow, the broad shoulders and Kentucky-bluegrass eyes… This man was a Kent. Her jaw dropped. “ _Jonathan?”_

The others let out cries of disbelief. Marie dug her fingers into her hair, while Max clapped both hands over her mouth as if she’d said something with catastrophic consequences. Terry had gone pale and was mouthing things no one could hear. Even Jonathan Kent seemed to be considering a hasty escape.

Only Damian seemed unaffected. If anything, he seemed more determined. His posture stiffened. His jaw clenched. Barbara recognized the sudden shift instantly; it was the same reaction her Damian had to a challenge or threat. His eyes narrowed, going for a dismissive expression, but unconsciously betraying and underlying vein of fear. His voice was clipped as he said, to the others, “Honestly, what did you all expect? Nothing ever gets past Delphi. You know this.”

“All-seeing Oracle in _deed,”_ Max muttered behind her hands.

Damian ignored her, and turned to Barbara with visible defiance burning in his eyes. “I suppose you have other suspicions you’d like to address? Speak them now. Let’s get it out of the way.”

Barbara nodded. Swallowed. Then, waved a hand between the two.  “You two,” she said softly. “You’re…together?”

Damian squeezed Jon’s hand even tighter. The half-Kryptonian bit his lip.

“Yes,” Damian clipped. “We are.”

“And…” Barbara squinted, noting their posture. Their reactions. They both seemed afraid, though they clearly had very different ways of reacting to that fear. Which wouldn’t make sense, if in the future—

“And no one else from your time knows about this, do they?”

Jon nodded sheepishly. “Well, I mean, the kids all figured it out. But…yeah. None of Dami’s siblings know about us. My parents don’t. The League doesn’t. And B—”

“No one,” Damian cut in, a meaningful glower tossed in his boyfriend’s direction. His eyes snapped back to Barbara’s, then narrowed. “This is…the first time we’ve formally told anyone.”

She saw it in his lower lip. The slight quiver. It was a ‘childish’ reaction that her Damian had been trying relentlessly to train himself out of. He hated the involuntary reaction, and claimed that it made him appear more ‘infantile’. But, regardless, whenever Damian wasn’t careful, whenever he was feeling particularly vulnerable…his lower lip quivered.

She wasn’t sure what Damian expected from her, though Barbara had her suspicions. But whatever it was, it wasn’t the sight of a warm smile lighting up her face. It wasn’t the quick embrace she wrapped Damian and Jon in with one swift step forward.

Both men tensed in her grip. John slowly relaxed, but Damian stayed as stiff as an iron pole as she pulled away, still smiling.

“Dami,” she said softly, “Thank you for telling me.”

His eyebrows climbed up his forehead. “You—?”

“You know I don’t care, right?” She reached out, landed a gentle punch on his arm. The others startled, gaping over at her like she’d just slapped a slavering lion. “You’re my _brother._ I love you. And that won’t ever change, no matter what.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she added, “So if you ever _do_ want to tell future me? I’m sure she’ll be ecstatic. For both of you.”

Damian swallowed. Hard. Looked away. Jon’s face split into a wide grin.

“Besides,” she said, “I’ve suspected for a while.”

“Is that right?” Her brother’s eyes met hers, once again. The challenge was back, though more tempered than before.

“Of course,” she breezed, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her peacoat. “It…takes one to know one, after all.”

There was dead silence from the others. Inside the tent, a massive cheer went up from the crowd. Barbara could only guess at the marvelous feats of flight they were missing out on. But right now, the most important thing in the world to her was seeing her little brother (well, not so little anymore) gaze at her with wide, wondering eyes. His jaw fell open slightly.

And Marie let out a whoop.

“I freaking _told_ you guys!” She pumped a fist in the air, then held out a grasping hand. “All of you. Pay up. _Now.”_

“Sorry,” Max shot back dryly, “I left my wallet in 2047.”

“Yeah, but Terry always keeps his in his _suit,_ don’tcha, buddy?”

Terry scowled. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” Marie pursed her lips. “I’m too adorable.”

Barbara raised an eyebrow. “You had a _bet_ going on—”

Damian chuckled. “I suppose your daughter spends far too much time with her Aunt. Brown is…a terrible influence, to say the least.”

“Careful, Uncle D,” Marie stage-whispered. “Or she’ll travel twenty-six years into the past just to kick your #$$.”

“Honestly, I would not put it past Stephanie to do just that.” Damian rolled his eyes skyward. Then let go of Jon’s hand to clasp both of his behind his back. “That being said, I suppose it goes without saying that none of you are allowed to divulge any more information. No offense, Delphi, but even the things we’ve said here and now may have catastrophic consequences.”

Barbara frowned. “None taken. But why? Booster’s robot has a feature that will wipe any trace of you out of our time. Including our memories.”

“Yes. However…certain things have the potential to slip through the cracks.” Damian lowered his chin, gaze darkening. “Especially when the subject in question has certain…mental training.”

Barbara blanched.

The others exchanged a few sidelong glances. Terry raised an eyebrow, looking to Nightshade in confusion. “Mental training? You mean, like, ‘mind over matter’?”

“No,” Damian said, never breaking eye contact with Barbara. “I mean _other_ mental training. The sort of techniques that my father trained his original protégés in. Ways to resist mental attack or alteration from those with telepathic abilities. The same may be applied to…an attempt at memory erasure, for instance.”

She remembered sitting on a cushion in the cave with Bruce and Dick. Fifteen years old and still new to the vigilante game. Though, not so new that she didn’t already have an arsenal of skills under her utility belt. But this was just one more she and Dick needed to master. Bruce’s smooth voice had been the only sound she and her partner were allowed to focus on during these sessions. Clearing the mind. And then sending the stream of thought on a different path. Weaving and winding through a mental maze that not even Martian Manhunter could navigate.

_You are in a dome. And in that dome, there is a maze. And in that maze, you turn left… Left… Right… Left… Right… Right… Right… Left…_

Miss Martian had come close, a few times, on the various attempts she’d made at reading Dick and Barbara’s minds. But never without detection. When Barbara had first joined the Team, she’d felt M’gann’s touch in her consciousness, trying subtly to find something. Probably her secret identity. Maybe even her ‘hidden feelings for Robin’—something the older members of the Team had been convinced of the first time they’d seen her punch Dick in the face. But instead of finding any of that, M’gann had paused, eyes widening as she gazed at Barbara with open shock.

 _“What—?”_ she’d gasped.

 _“Sorry, Miss M,”_ Barbara had responded cavalierly, as the others gaped in their direction. _“But I don’t like just anyone picking around up there.”_

Apparently, Dick had been skilled enough to keep the Martian out as well. But according to the notes Bruce kept on their training, he was far outmatched by Barbara’s mental prowess.

Bruce had trained the rest of his partners with this technique. Had hoped it would protect their identities, and make them more resistant to torture, should that situation ever arrive. The others never took to it quite as well as Dick and Barbara, however. But during the Gotham City Gang War, Stephanie Brown was able to employ the techniques Barbara had passed onto her (Bruce had stubbornly refused) to resist Black Masks brutal ‘information gleaning’ techniques.

But for the eldest two, it came naturally. Their minds were stronger, more resistant to mental attack or alteration, just as Damian was telling her now.

“So, what you’re saying,” Barbara muttered, “Is that there’s a chance that…”

“Some things will slip through. At least, for you and Grayson.” Damian shrugged, expression hard and blank. “You cannot help it. And so, I highly recommend that you visit Miss Martian once we take our leave. If you remember anything at all, she should be able to help you remedy that problem.”

“I—”

“Delphi, this is imperative,” Damian insisted. “If one wrong thing—one wrong detail—were to remain in your minds, it could drastically change the timeline as we know it.”

Barbara opened her mouth. Closed it. Then sighed. As much as she hated the thought of anyone rifling around through her memories, she knew that her little brother was right. How many times had she caught Bruce lecturing one of the speedsters about the same thing? (“ _I don’t care that it worked for Bart. This is nonnegotiable, Barry. We cannot afford any more risks to the timeline…”_ )

“But then, how will I remember to do that?” She mused. “You said _some_ things might slip through. What if that little piece of advice doesn’t?”

Damian sighed. “I’ll write you a note. The robot can wipe databases and memories alike, so that no digital or mental evidence of our presence will linger. But concrete proof, like paper or other objects, can survive the protocol.”

Terry’s head turned towards the ocean, and he blinked, slowly.

Barbara nodded. “Alright.”

When Marie cleared her throat, though, everyone paused to look at the young woman. She tapped her foot impatiently against the boardwalk, blinking back at them with an over-exaggeratedly calm expression.

“This is great,” she said, clapping her hands together. “We’re talking, we’re working stuff out, and it’s all gonna work out just fine. That’s _great._ Now. Can we _please_ go back to our show? I want to see my dad on the trapeze.” Now her hands lifted, clasping under her chin in a pleading gesture. For extra strength, she stuck out her lower lip.

Damian rolled his eyes, but nodded. “That’s why we came looking for you. The others will grow suspicious if we do not make an appearance for the show.”

Max frowned. “And what are they gonna say when three extra people show up?”

“I suppose we will just have to tell them the truth.” Damian pinched the bridge of his nose, then looked up. “We’ve let worse slip, I suppose.”

“One problem,” Barbara said, sending a meaningful glance back towards the tent. She could practically hear the annoying security worker’s voice screeching in her head. “I don’t have a ticket.”

Damian slipped a few out of his pocket. There was enough for all of them. At the sight, everyone’s eyes widened. A reaction that earned a wide smirk from the man.

“Let’s just say,” he rumbled. “That I have…as Marie would put it, ‘mad skills’. It was child’s play, to secure a few extra.”

Marie punched the air. “%^*# yeah!”

“Language,” Jon chided. “You’re mom’s standing right there!”

Barbara smirked. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go check out the—”

And from inside the tent, there came a massive crash.

All of them whirled around, nerves jumping at the sound of terrified screaming. It was a wave of sound that washed over Barbara like cold dread. She followed the others as they rushed back to the tear Marie had made in the tent, and pushed the others aside to look through.

Because her heart was in her throat. Her blood had frozen in her veins. How many times had she woken next to Dick to find him thrashing in their sheets, covered in cold sweat as he was tortured with another nightmare of that night?

The night the Haly’s Circus had been filled with screams.

And she tore aside the fabric of the tent, terror rushing to her head as she glanced desperately inside. Afraid to see what she expected to see.

But instead, Barbara wasn’t sure if what she _did_ see was better…or worse.

Masked figures in dark clothing stalked through the stands, wove through the scrambling crowds. They moved like living shadows, as sober as grim reapers. Yet despite their calm demeanor, the people around them knew to be afraid. _Very_ afraid.  A few figures stepped close to the exits, brandishing bronze blades that glinted evilly in the wane light. Audience members drew back at the sight, panicking as they struggled to run wherever the demons were not.

“Who—?” Terry muttered.

“Talons,” Barbara spat. She looked up, caught Damian’s eye. “My suit’s in the bike. I can be ready in five.”

Damian’s hand clapped to his chest. Miniaturized black panels skittered over his skin, an armored suit unfolding from some kind of mechanism on his chest. “Go,” he told her, as the material spread up and over his face. “We’ll get to work.”

She hesitated, watching in amazement as the others followed Nightshade’s lead. All of them but Jonathan Kent clapped a hand over their chests, and the same dark substance spread over clothing and skin alike. It covered their hair, their faces, even their eyes. Spread down to their fingers, their toes. A cape unfurled behind Max, and a glowing purple symbol that Barbara was as familiar with as her own name appeared on her chest. Next to her, Marie’s armor plating slid into place. A light blue-green eagle flickered to life over her heart. Barbara felt a sudden surge of pride, noticing the way the head and undersides of the wings were reminiscent of Dick’s symbol. But the tips of the outstretched feathers curved upwards, reminding her of Batgirl’s wings.

Barbara’s daughter caught her staring, and offered her a wide grin. It was startling, seeing white teeth in a sea of all that black and gray, but Barbara managed a small smile back.

“Everyone ready,” Damian snapped. “Except for you, Jon.”

“But—”

“Gothamites will not notice a few extra Bats flying about, tonight. But a Kryptonian _will_ draw attention.”

Barbara nodded sadly to the Future Superman, who seemed to deflate under the weight of his crushing disappointment. “He’s right. Sorry.”

Terry raised his fists. “Go, Batwoman. We’ll be ready for you.”

She smirked.

And then turned, and fled into the darkness.

 

* * *

 

“Seriously? How many free nights do we get, like, _ev-er?”_ Stephanie growled. She crumpled up her empty popcorn bag and tossed it over her shoulder. Tim might’ve protested (‘littering isn’t cool, Steph’) but he doubted anyone would care at the moment. “ &*#%, people are annoying…”

Around them, people screamed as they dashed back and forth in search of cover. A sea of wide eyes and flashing teeth, waving hands and earsplitting shouts. It was a dull roar that shook the tent, and popped in Tim’s eardrums.

The show had been going so well, too. Watching their older brother on the trapeze had been an indescribable experience. Just seeing Dick _in his element_ had been entertaining enough, without all of the daring routines involving fire-lit hoops, silk ribbons, and miniature fireworks. But during one of the aerialist’s stunts with the ribbons, there had been a small _swish._ Anyone else might’ve ignored the sound, or taken it as background noise.

But the four Batkids sitting in the stands would’ve known it anywhere—it was the sound of a small, sharp projectile flying through the air. Almost like a batarang.

Before any of them could open their mouths to scream out a warning, the projectile sliced through the red ribbon twined around Dick’s limbs. The ribbon frayed. Their brother’s eyes had gone impossibly wide, mouth falling open in shock. Then…he was free falling through the air. Back arched, arms spread out wide. Tim and the others were used to watching Dick Grayson fall, but the rest of the audience let out a hair-raising cry of alarm.

But, as always, Dick knew what he was doing when it came to flight. He gave a shout. The red-headed girl, Raya, looked down in a panic, then twisted. Her body spun in mesmerizing circles as she fell _down_ her ribbon, toes pointed and fingers outstretched. She gained speed. Grasped her ribbon as she finally reached the edge and—snagged Dick Grayson’s pleading hand. The weight of their brother alone should have been enough to tear them both from the ribbon, like spiders plucked from a web by a strong breeze.

Instead, Dick used the momentum. Swung them up to the other aerialists. The other male member of the troupe grabbed his outstretched fingers, and managed to lift them both to the safety of the platform. On the ground, the ringmaster had let out a sigh of relief with the rest of the crowd.  Then, threw his arms out and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve just witnessed another death-defying feat by the amazing F—”

“Attention.”

The crisp voice floated above the rest of the din, cutting through the noise like a sharpened dagger. Tim had never thought hundreds of people looking in one direction at once would make such a stark noise, but it did. All eyes focused on the three figures standing at the entrance to the center ring. It was where Dick and the other performers had all danced through not long before. They stood tall and powerful. Tim could see their muscle tone from the nosebleed section. One man, flanked by two. All of them wearing the same dark regalia of the Talons.

“We regret to inform you that tonight’s event has been postponed…indefinitely.” The Talon speaking rolled his head on his neck, swiveling to look around at the audience. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, then sprang open. There was a sharp _snik_ that Tim could hear clearly, even from so far away, as the Talon’s gloves sprouted sharp bronze claws. _Talons._

As his companions did the same, _snik, snik,_ an audible gasp rose from the crowd. Confusion, but not yet terror. (This was Gotham, after all, where freaks wearing animal costumes were a weekly occurrence.) It was only when the creature spoke again that the gravity of the situation began to sink in.

“The good news is,” he said, “that some of you may make it out alive.”

It was when those words broke over the whispers and humming of the crowd, and it was when the hordes of Talons streamed through the tent flap—flowing around the three lead Talons like river water cut by jagged rocks—that the screaming began.

Now, Tim watched Jason and Damian stand up next to him, glancing back and forth at the others. Steph frowned, getting to her feet. All of them asked each other the silent question, _had_ anyone _brought their gear?_

It took too long for the fact to sink in. And it sunk like a stone in the pit of Tim’s stomach.

No. No one had.

He looked up at Dick, standing on the platform above the cacophony. His hands hovered by his chest, eyes sweeping the crowd. Ready to jump in, but knowing he couldn’t. One of the other flyers dragged him back as a Talon landed next to him, swiping its mighty claws at his face. It narrowly missed, and Tim felt his heart fly up to his throat.

“We’re sitting ducks,” Damian spat. “We need options.”

Jason straightened. It was subtle, but it was there. The smooth, commanding edge that they’d been seeing more and more as of late. “You’re right. Tim. How far away are the cycles?”

“Twenty minutes. Minimum.” They would’ve had to come all the way from the Cave, bringing the spare suits along with them.

“And the car?”

Tim shook his head, trying desperately to think over the noise. “Ten? Maybe seven, if there isn’t any traffic.”

Jason swore. A heated word that ripped out of his throat in a growl. Fists clenched at his sides, he muttered, “And by then, people will be dead…”

Steph’s face was pale. Stricken. She turned her face to the rest of the tent, watching in horror as people screamed and ran. A shaking hand flew over her mouth. “Oh, g—”

Something flashed. Purple. Then red. Green. Blue.

The Bats whirled around. Gaped. Four new figures had joined the chaos, flying above it all on lines that had been attached to the tent’s support poles. They moved in streaks of black and color. Like shadow and light. One of them—the dark figure painted with blue—collided with the Talon attacking the aerialists, soaring through the air like they’d been born to it. The creature toppled over the side, screeching as he fell. Tim couldn’t see where he landed through the shifting bodies below. Only that the figure in blue caught the edge of the platform, and swung their body up. Triumphant. _Alive._

The man in red took out three more. Glowing, scarlet wings clipped out from beneath his arms, and he _flew._ He streaked through the air, snatching up attacking Talons and tossing them back to the ground like he was plucking weeds.

A figure in green was leaping from enemy to enemy, using the shoulders and backs of his opponents as stepping stones. He moved swiftly, spinning a pair of glowing escrima sticks above his head, behind his back, and over his shoulders. Incapacitating enemies left and right. A Talon bent over a screaming woman found himself cut down in a second. Two more threatening a young family were rendered headless by the sweeping escrima—they must have had hidden blades of some sort?

The Bats gaped at the scene. Tim could feel his heart begin to beat in his chest again. Help had arrived, even if it had a stranger’s face. He—

“Timothy Drake.”

A low voice made the hair on the back of his neck spike to attention. Tim and the others whirled around. Coming face to face with the giant Talon stalking towards them.

He took his time, wading through the shuffling, screaming people like a tiger through the reeds. His arms swung, letting the twin blades in his large hands glint evilly in the dim light. Every step seemed like a warning. Every movement a signal of danger. When he spoke, his voice warbled like something ancient that had dug itself out of the ground.

“The Court of Owls has sentenced you to die.”

 

* * *

 

“Like _#$%%,”_ Jason roared. He thrust himself in front of Tim, one hand craned behind his back to rest on his brother’s chest. Steph and Damian flanked him, expressions dark.

“If you want Drake,” Damian growled, a low, rough sound from the bottom of his throat, “You’ll go through us first.”

Tim was momentarily touched by his siblings’ show of force. But the feeling dissipated when the Talon cocked his head. His neck cracked a little as he twisted, and Tim found the movement creepily avian. Through the amber-colored goggles the warrior was wearing, he could see staring, soulless eyes watching their every movement, no matter how miniscule.

“Just as well,” the Talon finally warbled. He lunged.

They all tensed, waiting for the strike. But the slash of the Talon’s knife across someone’s throat never came. There was no pain. No blood spatter. Just a loose wheeze from the owl man as they all zeroed in on the sharp black point that had sprouted from his chest.

Blood, darker than any blood Tim had ever seen in his life, oozed like slime from the wound. Bubbling and trickling. The point disappeared with a sickening _slurch,_ and the Talon toppled forward. He landed in a bloody heap inches away from Stephanie’s boots. She gave a small grunt of disgust when some of the black-grey blood spattered the tip of one shoe.

Where the Talon had been only a second before toppling, stood a girl all in black. She brandished a sharp batarang like a dagger, and lowered its dripping tip as she straightened. When they all saw the purple bat glowing in the darkness, eyebrows were raised all around. No one spoke, at first. All five of them stood in silence, islands in the chaotic sea of screams and terror around them. But it was Steph who finally gulped down her confusion and posed the question,

“Um. Who the #$%% are _you?”_

The girl blinked. The white of her eyes disappeared in the black before returning to glow back at them.

“Not important,” she snapped. “What _is_ important, right now, is that we get you all to safety.”

“If…” Jason squinted. Studying the girl carefully, most likely noting, as Tim definitely was, the design of her costume. The tech she wore like a uniform. “If you are who I think you are,” he managed again, a little less hesitant this time, “then you know we don’t just run for safety.”

The white eyes narrowed. “Mm. Yeah. I guess you don’t.”

A Talon screeched, diving through the air like a falling star. Everyone flinched back, but the girl whirled around, cape swirling behind her like a whirlpool of diamonds. Her batarang flashed. And the Talon’s head and body rolled separately down the bleacher stairs. It was so fast, that Tim might’ve missed it if he’d blinked. The girl let out a soft pant, wiped the ‘rang casually against her thigh, and glanced back up at them.

“But, since _I’m_ the one with the suit and the weapons, I think it’s best if you leave it to me.” She nodded out to the rest of the tent, where figures like her were fighting the same battle. “And my partners.”

Stephanie squeaked, backing away from the dead Talon at her feet. “You’re killing them…that’s not what we do!”

The other girl almost seemed bored. “Talons don’t die,” she snapped. “Not really. Unless you douse them with enough liquid nitrogen to— _look out!”_

She surged forward, shoving Damian aside. There was a loud crash, as another Talon’s body fell from the air, landing where the boy had been standing only a second before. Another figure stood atop it, the collar of the monster’s suit gripped in both fists. This one, though, they all recognized.

“Terry?” Tim demanded. “What’s going on?”

Jason waved a hand. “Who’s she?”

Terry looked up, mouth hanging slightly open. He shared a look with the girl in purple that was clearly a cry for help, but she only frowned.

“Uh, well,” he grunted, “That’s a _great_ question, but right now—”

The Talon twitched underneath him. Then, quick as lightning, its arm shot up, and it wrapped a clawed hand around the future Batman’s throat. He gargled, stumbling back. Tim and Jason both surged forwards to help, but before they got the chance, the Talon… _shattered._ Pieces and shards fell like glitter around Terry’s boots, raining and tumbling across the bleachers. He kicked at them with a disgusted sigh before he tipped his head up to meet their eyes.

“Nitrogen pellet,” he explained with a shrug. He rubbed his fingers together, dusting off some grainy residue. “But what’re you all still doing here? Batgirl, get them out—”

Stephanie opened her mouth to protest, but Tim had the feeling Terry didn’t mean _her._ The girl—the _future Batgirl—_ planted both hands on her hips with a BatGlare so heated, Tim could feel his eyebrows singe a little. “What do you think I’m _trying_ to do?” She waved a hand in their direction with a huff. “Slaggin’ stubborn as ever.”

“You’re from the future, too,” Steph cut in, eyes widening. “Holy $#!^…are you—?”

“Damage control,” Terry muttered. Then, raising the volume. “Damage control! You four? Handle getting everybody out. Can you do that?”

Damian scowled. “Do _not_ speak to us like we’re helpless civilians, McGinnis. Allow us to help _our way_ , or I will break both your arms.”

Batgirl let out a low whistle, white eyes widening. “This is baby D, isn’t it? Oh. My. G—”

Another Talon leapt, this one nearly taking off Tim’s head with the sweep of a blade. She—they could immediately see that the Talon was female—whirled, arms stretched out, and claws gleaming as she hissed, “Timothy Drake, the Court of Owlsss hasss ssssentenccced you to diiiieeee.”

Her voice was even dustier than the previous Talon’s had been. Like she spent her free time gargling sand. Terry’s arm whipped out, and a small pellet burst against the Taloness’s chest plate. There was a pop, a _hiss,_ and a few curls of vapor floated in the air. Then, the woman _screamed,_ tossing her head back, and curling her fingers in agony. Tim could tell by the pull of her cowl that her mouth was stretched open as wide as it would go. And then, a jagged crack ripped up her torso. And just like that, she shattered. Pieces of her rained to the ground, skittering and sliding on the metal stands.

“Aw, fantastic,” Terry muttered. “They’re gunning for him, too?”

“Yes, they _are,”_ Batgirl hissed. She moved closer to her partner, head bent low to his ear. She needn’t have bothered, though, since all of them were literal _experts_ in eavesdropping. But apparently, the future Batgirl didn’t know that. “I hate to say it, Terr, but…this could be our chance. To make things right again.”

“Max,” Terry growled. He seized her shoulder and spun her away. A smart move; now none of them could read their lips. They dared to step a few feet away, but if Tim strained, he could still make out,

“That’s not what we do.”

“I know, but Terry, it’s _him._ Do you know how many lives we could—”

“Not happening, Max.”

“We just…stop helping the guy. Let nature take its course, and—”

“No. _Ab_ solutely not.” Terry raised a finger, glowering. “And if you do, I’m telling D.”

Batgirl’s eyes went wide, and she took a hesitant step back. Then recovered, and mumbled out a venomous, “ _Fine.”_ To the rest of them, she crossed her arms and snapped, “Get everyone out of this tent. We don’t have casualties so far, thankfully, and we’d like to keep it that way.” Under her breath, she added something that sounded a lot like ‘ _apparently’,_ but Tim was too busy following his siblings to care.

 

* * *

 

Dick had been having such a great night.

He’d stepped out into the ring to a roar of applause. Felt the rush of adrenaline in his veins as he leapt off the platform, and it felt like pure ecstasy. The warm lights, the heavy air of the circus tent… _amazing._ Every move he made, every rush of wind against his face, every sound of approval from the audience…it all felt like _home._

And, as he was spinning and leaping and twirling and flipping, Dick knew, subconsciously, that he already had a home. One at the Manor with his family. But here? In his _first_ home? With his _first_ family?

Dick didn’t know if words could ever come close to describing how amazing that felt.

And then it all went straight to #$%%.

A Talon had landed on the platform next to him. Made a swipe at his face with gleaming claws that looked sharp enough to eviscerate one of the elephants, and said, in a low chuckling voice,

“Oh, you have no idea how long I’ve _waited_ for this.”

They circled each other, Dick and the Talon. He hadn’t known that there’d be more than one psycho going by the name ‘Talon’ out there, but he should have figured. The creature in front of him wasn’t the same man as Barbara’s pseudo-brother, Calvin Rose. For one thing, he was shorter. Leaner. Built like a leopard. And, based on body language alone, just as eager for a kill.

The Talon made another jab for his face, and Dick ducked. (On second thought, maybe a cheetah, because this one was _quick._ )

“I’m sorry,” Dick breezed, “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.”

“True enough, I suppose,” the Talon mused. He side-stepped, and wove around Dick, coming up behind him. “But I know who _you_ are…Gray Son.”

Dick frowned. The way the other man had said his name…it was different. Like it was two words instead of just two syllables. He spun around to face the creature, keeping in mind the position of his feet and the space he had between them and the edge. Shivers of panicked awareness were sweeping up and down his spine as he reached the realization that he…may not be able to do anything. Not without the risk of blowing his cover.

As Batman? He could’ve kicked this guy’s #$$ in two seconds flat. Then, moved onto the rest of the owl-like assassins swimming through the crowds. But Dick Grayson wasn’t supposed to be able to do any of that. Acrobatics? Yes. Aikido? Definitely not.

“Doesn’t seem fair,” he decided, looking the man right in the eyes. They were tinted orange by the goggles, but he could tell they were lightly colored. Blue or gray, maybe. And he watched them narrow to slits as he continued. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“I agree. If I had it my way, you’d know _everything,_ little Dickie,” the Talon growled. Two blades _shikked_ out of his gauntlets, and he raised his arms, crossing the knives like an ‘x’ over his chest. “And I’d love to tear you open, just like I did your pretty little Barbie doll— _Ah._ You should’ve heard the _noises_ she made underneath me.”

Dick’s breathing hitched. He could feel the air trapped in his throat pushing against his chest, but he couldn’t force himself to take a breath.

He didn’t need to say anything. The Talon seemed to note the look on his face with supreme satisfaction. “Oh, don’t worry. She’s not dead, Dickie. But after what we’ll do to her—” His tongue clicked as he shook his head. “Well. You’ll only _wish_ she was.”

Dick could feel something searing and molten bubbling in his chest. His first thought was how _good_ it would feel to seize the monster’s head in both hands and twist sharply to the side— And then he stopped, nerves singing and goosebumps prickling over his skin.

 _‘What the #$%%?’_ he thought.

He knew when he was being baited. So he shoved that horrible impulse to the back of his consciousness. Something to be inspected and dissected later. Better to focus on the task at hand—keeping the civilians safe.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dick watched Raya shepherd the others to the corner farthest away from the assassin. She must’ve been trying to get them to the ladder. But Christina’s foot slipped off the edge, and she let out a small gasp. The Talon’s head swiveled in their direction, and zeroed in on Raya’s stiff posture.

“Well,” he said. His voice was as smooth as chocolate and twice as likely to induce a stomach ache. “If it isn’t just the lady I was looking to meet.”

The sound of his blades sliding against each other grated against Dick’s ears. He watched Raya’s eyes go wide. Mouth fall open in a sort of half-gasp. She urged the others away, letting Christina be the first to take the ladder down. The twins followed. But she didn’t have the time to make her escape before the Talon began to advance.

“Raya Vestri,” he crooned. “It is my _pleasure_ to inform you that the Court of Owls has sentenced you to die tonight.”

She took a step back. Cried out when her heel met open air and staggered to right herself. As the Talon stepped forward, getting closer and closer, she threw up her hands. “Wait!” she gasped, a squeaking, desperate noise. “This isn’t—”

“Hey!” Dick lunged. Caught the Talon’s shoulders and tensed as they both hit the platform. He rolled, landing a punch against the monster’s jaw as he flipped Talon onto his back. One blow. Two. Three.

The Talon roared, and moved so quickly, and with such inhuman strength, that it caught Dick off guard completely. One moment he was on his knees above his opponent. The next, he was flat on his back. Head slammed so hard he saw fireworks. The wooden boards dug painfully into his shoulder-blades. He let out a small cry of pain as the Talon’s claws latched around his neck.

“&*#, you’re annoying,” the assassin hissed. He raised a blade in the air, elbow bent and arm arced. Ready to plunge that sharp tip down into his face, or chest, or throat. “#*!% what the Court said, I’ll just put you down right he—”

A blur. Black and glowing blue. And the Talon was gone.

Dick could hear him shrieking, a sound that grew fainter and fainter, and he realized that the man had fallen over the platform’s edge. He sat up. Rested his weight on his elbows and blinked hard. Raya had rushed over to his side, hands hovering above him as she asked him frantically if he was alright, if he was hurt. But all he could focus on were the fingers gripping at the edge, seeking purchase.

Dick moved to help, but two elbows and the top of a head appeared. With a small grunt of effort, a chest, torso, and pair of legs followed. It was a young woman, and she pulled herself back up onto the platform with a huff, laying on her back with limbs sprawled out lazily.

“Good _grief,_ that guy’s heavier than he looks,” he heard the girl mumble. With a groan, she pulled herself up onto her elbows. It was nearly a mirror of Dick’s own position, and they met each other’s eyes suddenly. His own widened. Especially when they lowered to the blue eagle on her chest.  

“Uh…” His mouth opened, closed. Then he wet his lips, unsure of what else to say.

A gleeful sort of squeal leaked out of the girl’s throat as she whispered, “Oh, this is so _schway.”_

She popped to her feet with almost mesmerizing grace, and stretched out a gloved hand. His eyes never left hers—white slits, but no less captivating—as he accepted the hand up.

She was slight and short, a good foot shorter than he was. Though, it was hard to tell exactly, because she was bouncing nervously on the balls of her feet.  “Well, citizen,” she chirped. “You’re safe now. So, if you would please kindly make your way down the ladder in an orderly fashion and evacuate with the other members of the show and audience, that would be _great.”_

She was grinning up at him. It was a little bit harder to tell, since her mask covered her entire face, but there was something almost _smug_ about that smile. As if she knew something that he didn’t.

“How many masks _are_ there in this town?” he heard Raya mutter softly.

“Have we…” Dick squinted. “Have we met? You seem…familiar.”

And he didn’t just mean the fact that it was _his_ symbol on her chest. His real symbol. The one he’d made for himself. Granted, there were a few small design tweaks, but that was _his_ Nightwing eagle.

“Name’s Nightingale,” she said, shooting him a two-fingered salute with a smirk bigger than the circus tent. “Now—”

She didn’t get the chance to finish before a Talon’s fist cracked against her cheek. She twisted, not fighting the momentum of the blow, and slipped into a crouch. One leg swept out to catch the newcomer’s ankles. But this Talon was quick on their feet. They leapt, dodging the sweep-kick and swung a blade in Nightingale’s direction.

This time, she wasn’t fast enough. The girl yelped as a thin cut opened on her shoulder, and bared her teeth. “Okay, pal. You wanna dance?” She pressed a hand to the seeping wound and got to her feet. Shakily, but still ready for a fight. Her eyes were caught by something in the distance, and she gaped a little. Then grinned. Tipped her chin down. “’Cause I already brought my own partner.”

Two boots crashed into the Talon’s back, pinning him to the ground. The flap of a cape, spread out to the air like great black bat wings, was all Dick saw before the impact. There was a flash of red as the figure rolled and came up to stand beside Nightingale, fists raised.

Dick yelped. “Batwoman?”

Barbara’s eyes flicked over to his, and she managed a tense smile. “Always glad to be recognized, _citizen._ Now, if you don’t mind, Nightingale and I have some #$$ to kick.”

Nightingale beamed, like a little kid on Christmas morning.

And they both lunged forward.

It was like…watching clones fight together. Every one of Batwoman’s movements was mirrored in those of the smaller girl. Every kick, jab, swing. Barbara went high, Nightingale went lower. Batwoman kicked up, Nightingale swept below. Both women finished the Talon off in the amount of time it took Dick to figure out how to take a full breath again.

It was so fast, that Barbara’s sudden glance told him everything he needed to know.

“There’s more of them,” he muttered with a sigh. “Awesome.”

Next to him, Raya frowned. “Um. What?”

“Talons,” Barbara snapped, sending Dick a warning glance with one raised eyebrow. “There’s more Talons on their way. So I’d suggest you both find somewhere to hide. Preferably safe. Preferably out of the line of fire. Oh, and, Miss Vestri, was it?” She turned, but he could still see the ironic tilt to her mouth. “Keep an eye on him. Seems like the kinda guy who could use a _babysitter_.”

Dick frowned. Opened his mouth, and closed it again. Gaping like a &*#% fish out of water. There were a few choice words he wanted to offer up at that moment. None of which would be good for Raya to hear. None of which he should probably say as Dick Grayson to Batwoman. And yet—

Barbara smirked, now, sending a saucy wink his way.

Dick returned it with a slight smile and a look that clearly meant, _Oh. We’re_ so _coming back to this, later._

And Nightingale was just looking between the two of them like this was the best day of her life.

But he did what the lady said. He grabbed for Raya’s wrist, jerked his chin in the direction of the ladder to prompt her forward, then sent Barbara a wide-eyed glance. There were a few dozen questions in his mind that he wanted answered. But at the moment, he figured they all had more pressing concerns.

Nightingale and Batwoman both flipped off the platform. Dick felt the familiar swooping in his gut before he watched their lines snap around the support poles. And away they flew. Dark shadows against the canvas sky.

His feet had barely cleared the first rung when he heard Raya’s small voice beneath them.

“Dickie? What the %*$# was that?”

He huffed out a breath, resting his forehead against the cold iron rung in front of his face.

“Welcome to Gotham, Rai,” he said with a slight smile. And, to quote the billboard at the entrance to Amusement Mile: “Where the nightlife’s _way_ better than Metropolis’s.”

When their feet hit the dust, Dick’s legs buckled a little, and he threw a hand out to steady himself against the support pole. One glance around told him that the Talon who’d fallen fifty feet was nowhere to be seen, and Dick wasn’t quite sure what to think of that. Nor was he quite sure how to react when his phone buzzed in the pocket of his suit.

 _Technically,_ he wasn’t supposed to have his phone during a show. One glowing screen could distract a _lot_ of audience members if it was brought out at the wrong moment. But Dick had been eager to hear from Barbara. And, besides, lately he’d had the needling feeling that it would be a good idea to stay close to his phone at all times.

He brought it out, ignoring Raya’s pointed frown, and looked at the caller ID.

Pressed the ‘accept’ button and raised it to his ear.

“Alfred?”

 

* * *

 

The aftermath was a swarm of cops and EMTs wandering through the dilapidated crowd. Checking vitals, checking stories, and making sure that everyone was alright. The screams of terror had faded into dull murmurs of confusion.

Because as quickly as they’d come, the Talons had disappeared.

Barbara would have liked to think it was because they’d managed to beat them off. But she knew better. There’d come a certain point in the fight when the assassins had suddenly begun pulling their punches. Dodging out of the way instead of engaging new targets. It was a subtle change, but one by one, they left the tent. Until the only ones left were in shattered pieces on the ground.

The Bats—present-day and otherwise—left it to the GCPD to clean up the leftovers. They all made their way silently to the back of the tent, where the performer’s trailers had been set up. Like it was during the show, the space was completely deserted. Every member of the Haly’s Circus had been brought out front to give statements and answer questions. The only reason Dick had gotten a pass was because Batwoman had shot one look at Renee Montoya, shared an understanding nod with the grizzled detective, and then discreetly led her partner away to the meeting.

Raya Vestri, though, had tried to stop them.

“Hey,” she’d said, laying a hand on Dick’s arm. “They’re saying no one was hurt. A few of us are going to open up a few bottles later to celebrate. You want in?”

Dick had paused. Longing and hesitance warred on his face, and his hands shook. It must have been difficult; spending so little time with his old circus family before everything spiraled into chaos. Barbara watched the battle without saying a word, silently leaving it up to him to answer.

“I’m…um…my family needs me,” he finally said, turning his body away.

“But,” a look of hurt spread over Raya’s face. “I thought…aren’t _we_ your family?”

Dick’s eyes widened slightly at that, visibly stung. Batwoman came to his rescue with a soft sound at the back of her throat.

“I’m afraid that Mr. Grayson’s younger brother was injured during the confusion,” she said, keeping her tone level and detached. “He needs to see to the medical arrangements. But he’ll be back soon, I’m sure.”

They left Raya standing there, one hand still hovering in the air, as if reaching out for Dick, even while he was walking away.

Barbara waited until the distance between them and the crowd was wide enough before she said, as gently as she could manage, “Are you okay?”

He hummed, low in his throat. “No injuries. Took a fall, but as you can see—” His arms flew out to his sides. “—I’m still in one piece. But. I’m guessing that’s not what you meant, is it?”

They rounded the corner of the tent. Already, they could see the others gathered in a huddle at the back of the Big Top. Stephanie was almost vibrating in place. Tim and Jason had their arms crossed over their chests, while both Damians were engaged in an intense staring contest. A sigh leaked past her lips, and she dared a glance over at Dick. His eyes met hers, then darted away. Her partner’s expression was tight. Almost…guilty? Angry? Barbara wasn’t sure which.

“This was your night,” she said softly. Waved a hand through the air. “And then this happened.”

A rueful smile twisted his mouth. “Hey, it’s fine,” he breathed with a slight chuckle. The sound was warm, but it didn’t match his tone. “I mean, when’ve things ever been ideal?”

Barbara frowned at him, feeling a sympathetic line forming between her eyebrows. “I’m s—”

“Know what? Don’t be,” he clipped. He sped up his pace, striding easily ahead of her. Barbara faltered, mouth twisting into a frown as her eyes widened.

“ _Dick—_ ” she said.

“ _Babs,”_ he repeated. Glanced over his shoulder and met her eyes. “Let’s do this later, okay?”

She threw up her hands, marching after him. “Um, no? Talk to me!”

But Dick didn’t get the chance to respond. By then, they’d reached the tentative circle of Bats—present and future—and when she felt their eyes on her, Barbara shut her mouth. At her side, Dick was equally silent. Equally stiff. And he was staring, with large eyes, directly at Nightingale.

They’d removed their masks, leaving their true faces out in the open. Maybe it wasn’t an issue; they’d forget everything soon enough, anyway. But still, Barbara shot Older Damian a questioning glance. The man in question was standing very close to Jon Kent, fingers brushing but not intertwined. He met her gaze briefly, but returned to staring at her younger siblings.

“This is not a debate,” he snapped. “We cannot tell you anything more.”

“But whyyyy?” Stephanie whined. Her shoulders drooped, eyes rolling pathetically. “You already told us a ton, and if the little robot’s gonna wipe our brains anyway, what’s the point of keeping everything hush-hush?”

Max’s eyelids drooped, and she shot a frown Marie’s way. “&*#, she’s _just_ like ours, isn’t she?”

Marie giggled behind a clenched fist.

Terry frowned, crossing his arms. “I’m sorry, Steph, but Damian’s right. We’ve…kinda told you too much already.”

“It is in everyone’s best interest to keep things…’hush-hush’,” Damian finished with a dark expression.

They knew he was right. Bruce would have told them the same thing; don’t ask questions, don’t do anything that would threaten the timeline. It was a little maddening, having so many strangers in front of them, and no way to make sense of the questions hovering silently in the air. No one seemed happy about it, but all of the present Bats nodded.

Except for Tim.

“Sorry,” he said shortly. “But I don’t accept that.”

His hands were stuffed deep in his coat pockets, and his frown was indignant. This was the Red Robin who glared sleep in the eye every night and told it ‘no, thank you’. The Timothy Drake who was ready and willing to rip someone’s arms off over a game of Scrabble gone awry. Barbara usually thought his scowl was adorable—it was like trying to take an angry duckling seriously—but right now, she wasn’t tempted to laugh.

Older Damian’s gaze locked on Red Robin with frightening speed. “I’m sorry?”

Tim didn’t waver, even though his older-younger-brother’s expression was borderline explosive. “I want answers,” he said nonchalantly. Barbara could tell he was intentionally trying to play off his emotions. But even still, she could see a tremor in his posture. The way his fists opened and clenched in his pockets. “I want to know why everyone seems to want me dead.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Then _beg,_ Damian,” Tim snapped, and everyone gaped at his tone. His expression had gone darker than the open ocean on the other side of the iron railing. And twice as tumultuous. “I heard your Batgirl in there. She wanted to throw me to the Talons and walk away. Said it was your guys’ chance to ‘make things right again’. And don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you all look at me, like I’m some kind of bomb that’s about to blow. So tell me, _right now,_ little bro. _What’s the deal?”_

Damian’s eyes were blown wide. Barbara watched the color leak from his face as he swallowed hard. Jon put a hand on his back, leaning in to whisper something frantically. Marie and Max were sharing a lip-biting, wide-eyed glance, and Terry was staring out to sea.

“Come on, tell me,” Tim pleaded. “Am I dead in your time, or something? Am I sick? Or am I some sort of villain?”

Max sent a startled glance Damian’s way as Marie bit her lip. Terry’s eyes flashed dangerously, and Barbara could _hear_ Tim practically swallow his own tongue. The silent, torn reaction from the time-travelers was damning. It was all the answer they needed.

“No,” Jason snapped, putting one foot forward. “No, that’s not possible. Timmy wouldn’t hurt a fly. He couldn’t—”

A bright golden flash knocked them all off kilter. It was blinding. It was _searing_. Barbara’s retinas stung as she clapped a hand over her eyes and cried out. She could hear similar reactions all around. Along with a loud, staccato beat that she recognized too late as the stomp of heavy boots on wood.

A strangled gasp tore from Tim, and Barbara’s eyes flew open.

A newcomer had arrived from the future. It was easy to tell, as Skeets was hovering anxiously above Older Damian’s shoulder. Jon’s hand darted up, and he seized the wailing robot in one large fist before it could escape.

But that wasn’t the most worrying concern at the moment. Not remotely.

Because the newcomer in question had her hand wrapped around Tim Drake’s throat.

She—Barbara could tell by her getup that it was a _she—_ shouted, shoving him down to the wooden boards beneath their feet. Barbara heard Tim’s skull crack against them, and he let out a sharp cry. His fingers scrabbled over the girl’s gloved hand, trying to tear it away. But they froze when she whipped a pistol out from under her black jacket and pressed it to his forehead.

Barbara couldn’t see the girl’s face behind the red helmet she wore over her head, but she could hear the raw rage dripping in her voice as she snarled, “I’ve waited too long for this, you son of a &*!%#. Any last words?”

The others surged forward, ready to tear the girl in the red hood limb from limb.

The gun clicked. And they all locked up, frozen stiff.

“I wouldn’t,” she snapped. The sound of her voice was distorted through her helmet. But she sounded resigned. “I’m pulling this trigger either way, but you all get to decide if Drake goes now or in a few seconds.”

The time-travelers had stood by, paralyzed as they gaped over at one of their own. But the sight of the gun seemed to break the spell.

“Lee!?” Marie cried. “What are you—?”

“Leslie—”

Max staggered forward. “Les, babe, you don’t wanna—”

Terry blanched. “Think about this for a se—”

“Don’t!” Stephanie cried. She took a hobbling step forward, hands up, and the girl froze. For the space of a few heartbeats, she stared openly at Steph, silent and still. Like she was seeing some mythical creature worth a few seconds of shocked admiration. Steph swallowed, then said again, “Don’t. He’s innocent. Whatever you think he did—”

“ _You,”_ the girl said, voice suddenly hoarse. “Will thank me for this. All of you will. I—”

Tim Drake, though, was done being a damsel. He brought his legs up lightning quick, crossed his ankles around the girl’s throat—then pulled down _hard._ With a grunt, the girl fell back. Her helmet cracked against the ground, but the sound was lost in the gunfire as the pistol shot into the sky. Tim shakily got to his feet, slipping into a defensive stance. The girl did the same. But she clapped a hand up to the side of her helmet. Its digital panels flickered and disappeared, revealing long, wavy black hair streaked through with angry red slashes, and a face overflowing with rage. Teeth bared, blue eyes blazing, she raised her pistol again, arm outstretched.

Barbara recognized the girl’s face; she looked just like her mother, though her cheekbones were a little more defined, and the shape was narrower. She recognized the warm tint of her skin; it was the same shade as her father’s.

“Leslie Sheila Todd,” Damian snapped, voice like a thundercrack and twice as deadly. “Put the weapon down _now.”_

“Suck my &*#%, old man,” Leslie snarled through her teeth. Her eyes never left Tim’s hard face.

“You’re not going to shoot me,” Tim told her, keeping his tone level. His fists uncurled, and he bared his palms to the angry young woman. “Let’s just talk.”

The girl’s lips curled up in a humorless smile, and it was the most unnerving thing Barbara had seen all day. (Which was saying something, considering that she’d watched Nightshade and Batgirl decapitate a dozen or more Talons.) “Yeah, okay. We’ll _talk._ You’ll try and tell me how you’re not such a bad guy after all. Maybe these guys—” She waved her free hand dismissively towards the other present-Bats. “—will add their two cents in. But honestly, Drake? I _don’t care.”_

“Todd,” Jason muttered. His eyes were faraway. “Holy _$#!^…_ ”

“Put the gun down,” Barbara said, more firmly than even the future Damian had said it. There was steel in her tone with just enough ice that she could see the other girl flinch slightly. But still, she never wavered.

“ _Do it now!”_ Dick snapped.

“Les,” Marie moaned, taking a step forward. She put her hands up, spoke slowly. Like she was talking down an angry bear, singing a rabid wolf to sleep. “You can’t. You _can’t_ do this. It’s _Tim. Uncle Tim._ Remember how he used to sneak us candy when our moms weren’t looking? He got you your first grapnel. He taught us how to—”

 _“Shut up!”_ Leslie barked. A line had appeared between her eyebrows. Even from where she stood, too far away to help, Barbara could see moisture beginning to bead at the corners of the girl’s eyes. She grit her teeth, the muscles in her jaw straining. When she spoke again, her tone was hollow and stripped bare. It was tired. It was heartbroken. “I don’t care,” she whispered. Then again, in a ragged huff of air that betrayed more pain than anything else, “I don’t care. He killed my mom.”

The other time-travelers froze. It was subtle; if Barbara hadn’t seen the shift from the corner of her eyes, she might not have noticed it at all. They suddenly _stopped,_ like someone had pressed ‘pause’ on a movie, or stopped time completely. Damian had gone very still, as stiff and pale as a marble column.

So, when Terry wet his lips and spoke, it was the only sign that they were still amongst the living at all.

“What did you say?”

She jammed her free hand into her pocket. Drew out a sleek device that was phone-sized and phone-shaped, and she tossed it into the air. Terry caught it between both hands, frowning like the ground had been ripped out from underneath his boots.

“Watch,” Leslie Todd’s voice snapped like a whip, and her eyes narrowed. Guarding herself against whatever was on that phone. “Then you’ll see.”

Terry flipped the object in his hand, laying it face-up on his open palm. Finger poised above some unseen button, he hesitated. And so Older Damian finally unlocked his jaw and said, hoarsely,

“It can’t be true.” He swallowed. “It… _can’t._ McGinnis, don’t press that button.”

But Terry, as always, wasn’t very good at following instructions.

The pad of his finger tapped the screen quickly, as though it were molten. A shimmering image appeared above the object, fully colored and three-dimensional. Any other time, Barbara would have marveled at the technology necessary for a 3-D rendered recording, and with such incredible quality, but now was not that time. Instead, she could feel the blood in her veins ice over, rooting her in place. Like her siblings, she was still, and silent, and horror-struck.

Because the recording showed a woman laid in a fetal position on her side. She was middle-aged, and yet still appeared to be physically fit. But her wrists and ankles were bound, and, based on the bruising that painted her skin in angry colors, _broken._ The woman’s eyes were shut, blonde hair matted with scarlet and snarled over her face. Barbara could see a trickle of red seeping from the corner of her parted lips.

Over the phone’s speaker, they could all hear a low, chilling chuckle of laughter. The sound grated against Barbara’s nerves like sandpaper, and she could see the others tensing up around her. It was a smattering of a laugh that was simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar. The laugh belonged to the Joker…but…Barbara had the feeling that it wasn’t _their_ Joker. And that thought alone set off a host of panicked whispers in Barbara’s mind.

Max’s hands went to her mouth. “ _No,”_ she breathed.

 _“Hellllllo, Family,”_ a man’s voice crooned. The sound of it was smoother than the Joker’s voice. More…gentle. A soft-spoken Clown Prince of Crime.

Jason took a step back, with a ragged breath. Stephanie squinted at the screen, staring at the woman, before her eyes widened in horror. Dick was watching with a slackened jaw, while Barbara felt her heart stutter in her chest.

Tim blanched.

 _“It’s been so long,”_ the voice sighed mournfully, _“since we’ve all been together. I got lonely. I_ missed _you. So I went looking. And, wouldn’t you know it, happened upon one of your little safehouses. The one in the Blud, actually…”_

Damian’s face was a mask of sheer terror. Any color that had been left in his face was gone now. He swayed on his feet, and as Jon staggered to steady him, he whispered, “The children—”

 _“Naughty of you, trying to hide from me. I’m_ hurt.” Another low chuckle, more menacing this time. _“Lucky for me, though, you were_ stupid _enough to leave our little bundles of joy under such…inadequate supervision.”_

A boot appeared on the screen, and it was planted in the woman’s side. She heaved a pained grunt, and her eyes flickered open. They were narrowed indignantly, but bloodshot and watery. When she cracked open her mouth, she managed, in a gritty whisper, _“That the best you got, you son of a b—_ aach!”

Another kick to the stomach silenced her. But that one phrase, that one slip of the woman’s voice, was enough.

Stephanie—present Stephanie—whimpered, staggering backward with her arms hugged tight over her chest. “Oh, &*#, is that—?”

 _“You_ honestly _all thought that_ Spoiler _would be enough to protect them? I’m disappointed in you. I was expecting Damian. Thought_ he _was the one you all perpetually put in charge of babysitting.”_ The voice sighed again, wearily. _“But, no. You trusted poor, stupid Stephanie with your legacy. And now you’ll pay dearly for it, I’m sorry to say.”_

The scene panned to the left slowly, agonizingly. Barbara could see that the recording had been taken in some sort of underground bunker. Emergency lights flickered, lighting the scene up in flashes of cautionary orange. And there, on the floor, was a huddled mass of bodies. Crammed tightly together in a ring, they shifted, squinting warily up at the camera. Like Future-Stephanie’s, their wrists and ankles had all been bound tightly. Barbara’s heart stuttered again when she saw that they were all _children._

Terry’s mouth fell open. “ _Matt—”_ he choked.

 _“You left them_ all _here. Ripe for the picking. Really, Family, I thought you were smarter than this. I really, truly did.”_ The lense shifted, allowing more space around the huddled group of kids. Now, there was just enough room for one more figure to step into the frame. A man. He stayed close to the camera, face close enough to send prickles of discomfort trailing across everyone’s skin. And when that face came into focus, Barbara felt her heart stop completely.

Long, black hair hung over his eyes—and those eyes were _empty._ A dull, clouded blue, like a weathered piece of sea glass. They were sharp and calculating all the same. There was a raw intelligence glinting inside of them, even through the haze, and Barbara felt herself turn slightly to look at Tim Drake— _her_ Tim Drake—and the way he stared up in horror—

—at his own face.

Tim had always been pale. But this version had skin with a sickly yellow tinge to it. His stature had always been narrower, but now it was gaunt. Withered. A scarecrow standing watch in a barren field. He was dressed in a form-fitting black bodysuit, with a purple waistcoat thrown over the top. And when he leaned down, leering into the camera, she could see his smile. Stained teeth…and two curving, twisting scars that disfigured the corners of his stretching mouth.  

“No,” Tim whispered weakly. “No, that’s not—”

 _“Now they’re with me. And with me, they’re going to stay, until their parents decide to join the fun. I’m sure you’ve already traced this message, Lover. You always were quick. So that makes this simple.”_ His eyes narrowed, but his smile only stretched wider. _“You know where I am. You know what I want. And I have a sneaking suspicion you know what’ll happen if you don’t follow these instructions carefully, mm? Come to the front entrance—_ all _of you. If even one member of our happy little ménage is missing, I will slit a rug rat open ear to ear and let the rest of you hear the screaming. That means the McGinnis kid, too, by the way. His little brother has been missing him so.”_

One of the kids on the recording, a pre-teen boy wearing something that looked suspiciously like parts of a Robin suit, scowled. He spat out a hateful curse, and a girl huddled next to him burst into tears. The Joker— _Tim—_ looked at the boy disinterestedly.

 _“Hm. Maybe I’ll kill him first.”_ His dead eyes returned to the camera. “ _All of your weapons and gadgets? Leave them at home. You know I have my ways of knowing. If I see one batarang—one flash pellet—I’ll take a crowbar to little Archer Todd’s skull.”_

The camera focused on a boy—probably fourteen or fifteen—with dusty blond curls and Jason’s teal blue eyes. Or at least, the teal eyes he’d had before the Lazarus pit. The kid glared up at the camera and spat out, _“Let my mom go, you son of a &*^$#!”_

Tim clicked his tongue as he retook center stage, and shook his head. _“Language, language, language. Jason, you really shouldn’t teach your kids such vulgar vocabulary. I’m going to have to take his tongue for that._

The boy blanched.

 _“Where was I, again? Ah. Right. You have twenty-four hours. That’s the standard time-frame, isn’t it? One day exactly to pull yourselves together and join me for one last little Family Reunion.”_ A hand fluttered next to Tim’s leering face, and he gestured widely at the group of huddled kids. _“For every minute after that I have to wait, I will kill one of the children. Maybe I’ll start with plucky little Matt Mcginnis. Maybe, Dick, I’ll take Tommy’s fingers off and stuff them down his throat? And Duke, little Ronnie has been crying for her daddy_ all night long. _Should I stop her tears by tearing her eyes out? Harper, your twins have been so brave. Maybe I’ll watch them kill each other after a good old-fashioned dose of Joker gas? And Kate, love, I’d_ hate _to see your grandson damage himself, but…well.”_ Tim fixed his eyes, his unhinged eyes, squarely ahead. It was as if he were staring right at them, and Barbara felt a shiver of horror rip up her spine. He licked his ruined lips and added, _“I already beat my baby girl to a pulp and I feel_ nothing. _You probably don’t know, Lover, but she fought so hard…you’d be proud. She couldn’t see a thing, but she struggled so stubbornly. At least until her skull caved in. So. All of you. My Family. My brothers and sisters, and everyone in between. Do you really_ think _I would hesitate to do the same to your whelps?”_

“That _& *$^*$#,_” Max hissed.

 _“Twenty four hours. Front entrance—no backways or shortcuts. No weapons. Oh, and no Leaguers. This is a Family affair. And one last thing? Just to show that I’m committed. Families thrive off commitment, or so I’m told.”_ Tim disappeared from the frame for a few seconds. On the screen, kids suddenly sat up straighter, started to scream and plead as they pulled at their restraints. When the Joker returned to his place in front of the camera, he was holding Stephanie’s hair in one tight fist. Her eyes rolled up, narrowed, as he placed a thin switchblade under her jaw.

Tim bent low, lips pressed against Stephanie’s ear. His whisper was just loud enough for the phone’s speakers to pick up.

_“Would you like to say anything before we begin?”_

Stephanie’s eyes brimmed over. Two tears streaked down her cheeks as she sucked in a gasp through her teeth. Then, _“Jay? Jay, I love you so much. Always have, babe, and I always will. Do whatever you have to do to take care of Lee and Archer, okay? Archer, baby, can you hear me?”_

 _“Mom!”_ a voice behind them wailed.

 _“You’re going to be okay, honey, I promise you. Take care of your dad, okay? And Lee, if you’re seeing this? I’m so proud of you sweetheart. I’m so glad you got out. Don’t come back, do you hear me? Keep running. Don’t stop.”_ Her voice shattered on that last word, and she looked up at Tim through teary eyes. A sob ripped out through her clenched teeth, and her shoulders strained at her bonds.  _“And Timmy, I’m sorry we failed you. This isn’t your fault. This isn’t what you wanted. I_ know _that. So if you have to kill anyone, kill me. These kids haven’t done_ anything _to you—"_

The knife dug into her skin, releasing a stream of blood. It was fast, it was brutal. And Future-Stephanie’s mouth fell open in a silent scream.

 _“You’re right. But watching you all suffer_ is _what I want. So, wherever you wind up on your second trip down, Steph, I hope it was all worth it.”_

Barbara shut her eyes. She could hear the wailing. The sudden gasps and cries from the time-travelers in front of her. Stephanie let out a strangled scream that matched her future self’s as the knife dug in deeper, deeper, deeper.

 _“I hope it was_ all _worth it.”_

A thud. Then Older Damian’s voice.

“Turn that off. _Now.”_

Barbara opened her eyes and saw the future Bats gazing at each other with silent shock and edging panic. Leslie cocked her gun and grit her teeth.

“He sent that to everyone.” Her voice was toneless and dry. “By now, they’re all probably at his front door, getting mown down because Nightshade and Batman didn’t get the memo. So. I came back to kill Drake _now,_ before he can go rabid. Consider it a public service.”

Tim’s knees cracked against the boardwalk, arms wrapping up around his chest, trying to keep himself together. As he tipped his chin up, Barbara saw tears brimming in his eyes.

“You should’ve let me die in there,” he whispered. “I… _& *#...”_

He looked sick. Barbara was at his side in two steps, and she knelt beside him. “Timmy, no. That’s not you,” she said softly. “That’s just…”

Barbara looked up at Older Damian helplessly, unsure of what to say.

“Steph,” Tim croaked. He hazarded a glance up at her, and saw her pale, tear-streaked face. Watching yourself die in real time was probably a traumatizing experience, and their sister looked gutted. When they met eyes, Tim jerked his gaze back down. “ _I’m sorry,”_ he hissed.

“I…I need a minute.” Stephanie was pale as a ghost, and she took one step back. Then another. And another, before she turned and took off towards the front of the circus tent. Jason moved to follow her, but stopped dead in his tracks when she snapped, _“Alone!”_

For an eternity, they were all silent. Barbara could see the looks of horror on everyone’s faces as the words and the images played back in their minds on a constant, horrifying loop. For the present-day Bats, it wasn’t quite as terrible. They didn’t know those kids, yet, and…there was no context. No explanation to tell them why Tim Drake was the Joker. Why the children had been hidden in a Bludhaven bunker, and not one of the Gotham City safehouses spread throughout the city. It was terrible, witnessing Stephanie’s future murder right before their eyes—Barbara could feel her stomach turning, reminded of a time, years ago, when her little sister had died the first time—but still…there was a level of detachment. It wasn’t… _real._ At least, not to them. Not yet.

But for the time-travelers…Barbara couldn’t even image what they might have been going through. Older Damian was staring out to sea, eyes looking into the future at something Barbara couldn’t even begin to guess. At his sides, his fists were clenched so hard that they shook. Max staggered, expression blank as she leaned on Jon for support. Terry had turned away. And Marie was a puddle on the ground, crying softly into her hands. Barbara could see her wide, terrified eyes over the tops of her fingers, and the sight made her heart lurch painfully. But she couldn’t leave Tim’s side, couldn’t stop subtly shifting her body in front of his. If she moved, Leslie Todd would open fire.

So it was Dick who finally spoke.

“You need to go back,” he said. “All of you. _Now._ ”

Future Damian tore his eyes away from the ocean, and they could all see his tears now. He wiped them away with the back of a hand and scowled.

“Grayson,” he snapped. “What are you s—”

“You have the robot.” Dick pointed up at Skeets, who was blinking bleakly in Jon Kent’s clenched fist. “Leslie, right? How long has it been since Damian and Terry travelled back?”

“Months,” the girl snapped. Her hand still held the gun, but it dipped slightly in her confusion. “And it’s been six weeks since the girls and Jon came back to find them.”

“Jon—?” Present Damian muttered below his breath, finally daring a glance up at the towering Kryptonian.

“Good,” Dick continued. “So, go home. Before he can get to the bunker. None of you exist in that timeline, except you, Leslie, so it should work.”

“Then what about me?” she snapped, raising the pistol again.

“If they manage to fix that future point in time, you’ll never have come back here with the robot—”

“—which was supposed to come pick us up anyway,” Older Damian muttered, eyes widening.

“And things will work themselves out.” Dick’s voice lowered gently, and he stepped forward. Laid a hand on his much taller little brother’s arm. “You still have time to save them, Dami. And we’ll save Tim. Don’t worry.”

Damian’s eyes were a size that was almost vulnerable. Barbara didn’t usually see that in _her_ Damian, let alone this future version of him, and it made her heart ache a little. Those scared eyes blinked, then glanced down at Tim. The rest turned to follow suit.

Tim was crouched behind Barbara, taking shelter under her cape like it would shield him from his own bleak future. He cried into her armor, sniffling and gasping weakly, and Barbara pulled him closer. Wrapped her arms around his shoulders to hold him together.

Leslie lowered her weapon, finally, and let out a dry sob. “Would that really work?”

Dick nodded solemnly. “Trust me, I know timelines. My friend, Wally, has told me all about them. It’ll work.”

Barbara looked up at the time travelers. The Batgirl and Batman who would be patrolling the night skies when she and Dick were ready to pass their mantles on. Her daughter. Her baby brother—now a grown man—and his boyfriend. They all shifted nervously, still shell-shocked by the revelation brought to them by one of their own.

Barbara spoke up. “What we just saw—that’s not happening. Not anymore.” Her words were for Tim’s benefit, too, and she could feel him go still in her arms. “So, there’s no reason for you to mourn.”

Older Damian nodded. He turned to the others with a stiff frown. A _scared_ frown.

“Delphi is right,” he told them solemnly. Then nodded again, trying to convince himself.  “She’s right. Someone go and find Brown. It is time for us to take our leave.”

“I will,” Present-day Damian volunteered, to the surprise of everyone.

No one had the chance to protest before he’d already disappeared around the corner. Barbara had to admire the kid’s speed. She could only hope that he wasn’t too affected by what they’d all just seen, though. It was a lot for _her_ to process.

Marie got shakily to her feet, arms wrapped tightly around her midsection. Her eyes travelled between Leslie, and Barbara, and Dick, and finally landed on Tim, who was still a shaking puddle in Barbara’s arms. A line appeared between her brows, and she pushed past her cousin to kneel down in front of him. Leslie looked ready to protest, but when she saw Marie lean in close, hands on her knees, she stayed quiet. Barbara’s eyebrows lifted. Marie whispered,

“You’re a good man, Uncle Tim. It wasn’t your fault.”

Tim managed to tip his face up a little to stare at the girl. “I-I don’t know that. Not yet.”

“But _I_ do.” Marie’s voice was gentle and even, like she was coaxing a shy animal to eat from her hand. Or maybe taking a leisurely stroll through a minefield. “What Joker— _original_ Joker—did to you? It’s not your fault. It’s…not your fault you broke.”

Tim heaved a shaky gasp, and dragged a hand over his eyes. His glance up at Barbara was sheepish as he said, “Yeah. Yeah, um. I’m sorry.” He moved to stand, clothing rustling and breath hitching. “Lemme just—”

“Tim,” Barbara said. “You don’t have to apologize for _anything.”_

“She’s right, little bro,” Jason added firmly. He stepped forward, and gave Tim a hand up. The clasp of his brother’s hand seemed to steel him, and he seemed a little more put together when he’d gotten to his feet.

Dick surged forward and wrapped his middle brother in a hug before Tim even had the chance to say ‘no thanks’. His eyes widened as the air was squeezed out of him, but Dick didn’t relent.

Marie was looking up at him with an expression Barbara couldn’t name. Some combination of sadness and nostalgia, with a little bit of amusement mixed in for flavor. She noticed Barbara staring, and shot her a small smile.

Leslie squinted. “Wait. _Dad?”_

Jason looked up, tearing his laughing eyes away from Tim and his new straitjacket, and fixed them on the girl with the red and black hair. The girl with his symbol on her chest.

“Are you—?” he muttered.

Still squinting, her mouth fell open a little. “Whoa. You look so _different_ with both eyes.”

Jason scowled. But held his arms up and waggled his fingers. “My kid, huh? Welp, get over here, squirt.”

“Hugs are for sissies.” She said it like she was testing the waters.

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Um, I am trying to show affection, future child of mine? Please don’t make me regret it, yeah?”

A look of surprise and delight lit up Leslie Todd’s face as she collapsed forward into his arms. A sob ripped out of her throat, and she nuzzled her face into the front of his shirt. Jason’s eyes widened by a fraction, his hand coming up to hover over her head. He hesitated, but then seemed to settle for awkwardly stroking her hair.

Barbara was surprised by the sudden embrace she was squeezed into as well when Marie’s arms locked around her ribcage. She returned it gently, holding her daughter in her arms.

“I’m going to miss you,” Marie whispered, voice small and fragile. “I mean, I know I’ll see you when I get back, but…”

“I know.” Barbara reached up to thread her fingers through the girl’s silky ponytail. The strands shone in the dim light, and felt cold and satin-like against her fingertips. Then, “Dick? You need to get over here.”

Dick looked up from Tim (who was starting to turn a whole new shade of purple) before dropping him to float over. His brows were raised, mouth turned down in confusion. “Yeah?”

In spite of herself, Barbara could feel tears prickling in her eyes. “I want you to meet Marie Grayson.”

Marie smiled up at him, eyes brimming. “Hey, Daddy.”

And Dick looked like he’d been hit by a semi-truck. In the best way possible.

“Then you’re—?” He pointed at Marie. Looked up to Barbara. Back to Marie. Then back to Barbara. His face lit up like the Fourth of July, and he reverently whispered, “Then that means—”

Barbara grinned, nodding even as she felt one tear slide down her cheek.

And then both women were crushed in a gigantic hug. Barbara could feel her ribs creak a little, but let out a boisterous laugh. So did Marie, before burying her face in her father’s arm.

“I’m a dad!” he crowed, lifting them both up, and he spun them around. It was only a hair’s-width off the ground, but it was enough that both ladies let out shrieks of surprise. Dick’s head snapped to the side, hair flying. “Jay, did you hear that? I have a kid!”

Jason was still clutching his own daughter protectively. “Yeah, man. Join the club.”

“Timmy! I’m a dad!”

Tim had one arm wrapped around his chest. With the other, he managed a weak thumbs up and an even weaker smile. “Yay?”

“Dami—!”

“Yes, Grayson, I am aware of the fact,” Older Damian droned. He shot a longsuffering glance towards his boyfriend and sighed. “I _am_ the one who trained her, after all.”

“Taught her everything she knows,” Max added.

Terry folded his arms over his chest, smirking as he chimed in. “I mean, _you_ were gonna do it, man. But you threw your back out when you tried to do a double front-flip on the trampoline to prove to Jason that—”

“—and I quote,” Max said in monotone, making good use of sarcastic finger-quotes, “’I’ve totally still got it, Little Wing!’ One trip to the hospital later, and…” She shrugged.

Dick seemed largely unaffected by this statement, though, as he pulled away from Barbara and their daughter. His eyes glowed, and Barbara recognized the look. It was the same gleam she saw whenever he took a flying leap from somewhere high, only to fly back up, defying gravity completely. She saw it when he laughed at a joke or funny story. She saw it when he was _telling_ those jokes or funny stories to kids they’d rescued, while they waited for their parents or the authorities.

It was _her_ Dick Grayson, before all the weight he’d accepted onto his shoulders.

Open. Unguarded. _Happy._

Then, he squinted. Frowned slightly.

“I…I _know_ you, though,” he whispered, sounding a little more than awestruck. “Have you…travelled in time before?”

Marie frowned back. Shook her head.

“No. No, I _know_ I’ve seen you.” He looked up at the circus tent. Lifted a hand to indicate the Big Top in all its glory. “Here. At the circus. _Somehow.”_

Again, Marie shook her head. “Sorry.”

“Maybe it’s just the family resemblance?” Terry guessed with a frown. He looked up towards Nightshade, as if to confirm the suspicion, but Damian could only shrug.

Dick nodded, seemingly unconvinced. “Yeah. That’s…that’s probably it.”

Still, he looked at his daughter through welling eyes, and reached out to plant a hand on her shoulder. Whatever had been bothering him, it didn’t seem to matter now. He was just reveling in the chance he had to stand with his family.

But apparently not his entire family, because Marie giggled and said, “I’ve got a little brother, too. His name’s Thomas.”

Dick grinned. “Tell me more. About both of you.”

Marie’s eyes lit up as she spoke. She told them all about her schooling—she had master’s degrees in Law and Forensic Science, and a B.S. in Criminal Psychology—and her day job as a Court Liaison. She was young, but somewhat of a prodigy (she told them, with no shortage of pride) and was working at getting a position as an attorney or lawyer, because she wanted to follow in her parents’ footsteps. Namely, her mother’s job of taking down criminals as the GCPD’s Commissioner, and her father’s job as the D.A. on the other side of the justice system. By day, she worked in court, and by night, she patrolled the skies with Batman Incorporated. Her little brother, Thomas, was a freshman in high school.

When she talked about him, her voice took on a nervous tinge. Barbara remembered the Future Joker’s threats on the recording, and placed a hand on her daughter’s arm with a smile to urge her on.

Thomas Alfred Grayson was a free spirit who loved acrobatics as much as his father. Marie laughed as she relayed stories of daring stunts involving moving cars, rooftops, bookshelves, and homemade go-cars (that were egged on by his father and uncles), impromptu hospital visits, and life bans from many restaurants and arcades around Gotham. Like his mother, Thomas had a sharp wit, and was easily one of the craftiest of the next generation of Bats. Like his dad, he had an easy-going swagger that made him popular with Gotham’s female population, and a charming smile that helped him get away with almost anything.

“He gets away with murder,” Marie groaned. “And me? I’m, like, the oldest, so I never get away with _anything!”_

“Helena’s older!” Max shouted, as she turned from the huddled group of time travelers standing a few feet away. Her neck craned, and the smirk on her face was absolutely $#!^-eating.

“Helena’s practically my _aunt!”_ Marie shot back, sounding scandalized.

Terry barked out a laugh. It was a knowing sort of laugh that Barbara would have dissected if she weren’t so locked onto her daughter.

“And I mean, he has ADD,” Marie continued with a shrug, as if the interruption had never happened. “But, like, he can be _such_ a pain in the #$$ when he wants to be. But what can I say? I love the little twip.”

“Twip?” Dick asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s a future thing,” Terry called out.

Just then, Damian appeared around the edge of the tent. One foot, then his head, then the rest of him. With one hand, he gently grasped Stephanie’s wrist, pulling her carefully behind him. Stephanie Brown had on a dazed, shell-shocked expression. It was the same kind of look she got anytime she was confronted with situations that would trigger her old memories. The memories of being trapped and tortured by Black Mask for three horrible weeks. When she caught sight of Tim, Steph flinched back, looking away.

Tim deflated.

The two final pieces of the Batfamily came to a rest just a few feet away, hovering on the edge of the group. Hesitating. Jason lifted an arm carefully, invitingly, and caught Stephanie’s glazed eyes.

“Blondie,” he said, “Get in here.”

She shuffled over, let herself be wrapped in Jason’s arms, and rested her head on the top of Leslie’s.

“Good,” Older Damian said at last. “Now that everyone is present and accounted for, it is time to take our leave. Two minutes to say your goodbyes.”

A cry of protest rang up from everybody, but the older man didn’t relent. He didn’t even react, remaining instead just as stone-faced as ever.

Marie squeezed her parents even tighter, sniffling. “I’m really gonna miss you guys.”

Leslie sighed into her mother’s shoulder. “Dad. _Mom.”_

Max had made her way over to Tim. They regarded each other warily, but when Max reached up to lay a hand on Tim’s shoulder, they both relaxed a little.

“I’m sorry for all of that,” she told him gently. “It wasn’t right for me to hold a grudge—especially when the reason for that grudge hasn’t even happened yet!”

Tim managed a chuckle, almost shrinking under the weight of her hand—and her statement.

“You mentored me for a little while in computers,” Max continued. “If it wasn’t for you, I never would’ve been able to crack government databases. And the Watchtower’s systems!”

Older Damian’s head whipped around. “I beg your _pardon?”_

Jon gasped. “That was _you?”_

“Ooohh,” Terry groaned. “Someone’s in tr—”

“Can it, McGinnis!” Max’s scowl was deadly.

Older Damian jabbed a finger in her direction as he snapped, “ _Later.”_ Then, he turned back to his younger self. He’d just handed the list of instructions for memory-wiping and maintenance to Barbara (she accepted it with a confused grin) and was left to deal with tiny Damian, who was staring up at him and Jon with a questioning frown.

“So,” Present-day Damian clipped.

“So,” Older Damian repeated.

Jon looked back and forth between them, only the irises of his eyes moving. Then, he huffed out a bit of a laugh and said, “Yeah, well! Any advice for your younger self, Dami?”

“Ludicrous. He will not remember this conversation after we make the jump.”

“ _Dami…”_

“Be true to yourself,” Older Damian said blankly. “The rest of the world will try to sway you in one way or the other. Tell you what you should be, and what you should become. But don’t listen. As long as you pave your own way, and stick to the principles you know to be correct, you will not find yourself falling into Mother’s life.”

Damian blinked. So did his future self.

“Also,” the older of the two added, slipping his hand into Jon’s. His present-day equivalent let his jaw go slack with surprise. “Your family loves you. Your _true_ family. Not Mother. Not Grandfather. But everyone else. Remember that, and you will have the confidence to go after the things you want in life.”

“Hi, my name is ‘Thing Dami Wants In Life’!” Jon waved a hand, beaming. “But seriously. Just remember to let people in, kiddo! Look how well it turned out for this old stick in the mud!”

He swung their grasped hands a little, and in spite of himself, Older Damian’s face cracked into a smile.

Terry made his way around the group, bouncing from one person to the next. There was no one he ‘belonged’ to, and no one who resembled him in any way. Still, though, Terry McGinnis was just as connected to everyone here as they would someday be connected to him. He rustled little Damian’s hair and told him ‘not to be such a hard#$$ when he got older’. He exchanged fist-bumps and laughter-filled goodbyes with Jason and Stephanie (Steph’s laughs seemed forced, but no one commented on it). Tim, he embraced tightly. Then did the same with Dick.

“I know how much you like hugs, big guy,” he told the oldest Bat with a grin.

Dick squeezed back. “Can’t wait to meet you in the future, kid.”

“Yeah…um. Remember that.” Terry bared his teeth in a panicked smile, face half buried in Dick’s chest. “What you just said. For…when that happens. Okay?”

It was Max’s turn to burst out laughing.

When he turned to Barbara, Terry went still. His arms hung at his sides, hesitating and expectant. His mouth opened and closed, as if the words were struggling to escape his tongue. When he finally swallowed, he stepped forward, and held out a hand.

“I know you’ve got a lot on your plate,” Terry told her. His tone was sheepish; his eyes darted up to Older Damian, who was still talking with his counterpart, before snapping back to Barbara. “But…there’s something I need you to do.”

Barbara could feel a line appear between her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

In his hand, there was a small scrap of paper. It was the Haly’s Circus program, but judging by the way it was folded and clenched protectively between Terry’s fingers, she wagered a guess that it wasn’t the evening’s itinerary that was so vital. It was whatever he’d _written_ on it.

“The robot is calibrated,” Older Damian announced.

 _“This is the last time I deal with you Bat-freaks, do you hear me?”_ Skeets screeched. _“I should take you all back in time and dump you in the Cretaceous Period!”_

“But, you cannot do that,” the older man sighed, with a dramatic roll of his eyes, “Because your programs do not allow you to do so. Now. Everyone? Come and gather around the small golden pain in my #$$.”

Marie gave Dick and Barbara one last squeeze, one last smile, then skipped over to the rest of her posse. Max and Leslie seemed reluctant, but they drifted over as well, feet dragging sadly.

Only Terry hesitated.

“McGinnis,” Damian snapped. “It’s _time.”_

“Just a second, D,” he called out. Then, his eyes flicked back down to Barbara. His expression, like his tone, took on a pleading edge. “Please,” he whispered. “Take it.”

Barbara reached out. Her fingers brushed the paper.

“McGinnis?” Damian’s voice turned dangerous—with a desperate twinge that made the hairs on the back of Barbara’s neck stand straight up. “ _McGinnis!_ What the #$%% are you—!?”

Barbara grasped the program in her hand. Slid it into her belt.

And with that simple action, all #$%% broke loose.

Future Damian made a sharp sound like the air had been forcibly yanked from his lungs, ragged and gurgling. With a retching gasp, he doubled over, falling to his knees in one heavy collapse. His hands pressed over his stomach. The spot just below the arch of his ribcage. And they came away stained in scarlet, bright and dripping.

“D!” Terry raced to his side, sliding on his knees.

“ _Dami!”_ Jon screamed.

But everyone else could only watch in horror as Marie let out a gasping, strangled cry. She held up her own left hand in front of her face, watching as it began to…dissolve. The tips of her fingers floated away, ashes on the wind. Her knuckles puffed and scattered in the breeze like a blown dandelion. Tears streaked down her face as she cried out,

“W-what’s happening to me? I don’t—"

Her forearm broke apart into fluttering butterflies that disappeared as soon as they took flight.

Damian looked up at Terry McGinnis, eyes wide with betrayal.

“M-Mc-guh— _ginnis,”_ he gurgled. Blood burbled from his lips, and he paused to retch. “What ha-ave you _done?”_

“Wait—!” Barbara cried.

There was a stunning flash of gold.

…And she forgot what she’d been about to say entirely.

Barbara blinked around at her siblings, who were standing with her behind the Big Top of the Haly’s Circus. It was some sort of living area, filled with tents and trailers. More likely than not, it was where the performers lived while they were in Gotham, and relaxed when there were no shows to put on. It was dark, and silent, lit only by a collection of string lights scattered around and hung off of anything within reach. A chill breeze brushed across her skin, rocking the lights gently, and smelling of popcorn and ashes.

“Um,” Jason said, blinking as his eyes took in the scene. “This might sound _really_ weird, guys, but…does anyone have a really weird sense of déjà vu right now? But not really déjà vu, more like…I dunno…”

“Yeah…” Stepanie scowled contemplatively. Damian was standing nearby, and his expression was a perfect mirror of his sister’s.

“Something happened,” Tim said softly. He, out of all of them, looked the most haunted by this idea.

“You’re right,” Dick said mournfully. “It feels like we lost something important.”

 

* * *

 

It didn’t take long for the others to recover from the strange ‘blip’ in their evening.

In fact, if anything, they seemed… _ecstatic._ Stephanie had practically been vibrating with excitement while the boys exchanged knowing glances. Barbara couldn’t help but wonder what sort of trap they had in mind as Stephanie ‘subtly’ suggested that the younger four go grab corndogs. The older pair, it was decreed, would remain behind. To…’talk’.

Before she had the chance to protest (Shouldn’t they all stay together? What if she wanted a corndog, too?) they’d vanished. Leaving her behind the circus tent, standing with Dick in the soft glow of the string lights.

But Dick wore a frown.

He stared at her coldly, and it was a temperature that Barbara was neither accustomed to nor inclined towards. It sent chills dancing up her arms beneath her uniform’s sleeves. The tight pull of his mouth, his lowered eyelids. If she didn’t know better—and Barbara wasn’t completely sure she _did—_ Dick almost seemed…

“Nice makeup,” she said softly, with a trace of warm humor. “Really accentuates your cheekbones.”  It was a lame attempt to break through the ice, but it only seemed to freeze her boyfriend over even more.

“Thanks,” he said flatly. Eyes raked over her figure. They lingered at the hem of her cape, at the utility belt settled on her hips, before finally settling on the red insignia. “Nice costume. It sure is a good thing Batwoman got here so _quickly.”_

Oh.

So _that_ was it.

“Yeah,” she breezed, frowning. “It is. Think of how many people might’ve been killed if she hadn’t. Talk about lucky.”

“Maybe I don’t want to talk about that.” Dick’s eyes narrowed even further. Now, they were slits, slivers of ice. “Maybe I want to talk about how you tore your stitches yesterday?”

“How did you—?”

“A little birdie told me.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, then looked up, incensed. “You were attacked—by a _Talon? How_ could you not tell me about that?”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“Oh, it _absolutely_ matters,” he said darkly. His blue eyes stared into her, sharp and jagged like an arctic wind. He took a step forward. “He could have killed you. He could have done _worse._ Did he?”

“No.”

“Then how come you didn’t tell me?”

Barbara took one step back. There was something a little too real in the sound her boot made on the boardwalk. “Why are you so up in arms about this? I’m here, aren’t I? I’m alive. It was just a few stitches.”

“It was just a few stitches,” Dick repeated dryly. His eyes sank to her shoulder, then returned to meet hers with renewed fury. “And what if it wasn’t? Would you have told my _anything,_ then?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She demanded. Bared her teeth. “Of course I—”

Dick cut her off, voice shaking. “Then can you explain the call I just got from Alfred?”

Barbara froze, every muscle contracting. Finally feeling the cold that emanated off her partner seep into her own bones, crackle against her own skin, and flash-freeze her entire thought process. She couldn’t have explained a &*%# thing if she’d wanted to. And now…

Dick’s expression was deadly. Each statement was posed as a withering demand, fired at her without mercy. “He told me that there was a knock on the door? _You_ told him to get to the safe room, and that it was the _last he heard from you?”_

Barbara could have facepalmed. _How_ had she forgotten about Alfred?

“Or how about when he finally busted out—three hours later, funny enough—and found the place swarming with cops and detectives? But the kicker? He called me in a _panic,_ because _you_ weren’t there, but a package with the Joker’s face _was._ Can you explain _that? Babs?”_

His volume had risen gradually with every passing moment, and now he was just on the brink of all-out shouting. The look in his eyes pierced Barbara to her core, but she tipped her chin up, crossed her arms tight over her chest—over her _symbol—_ and glowered. Her voice came out as a venomous whisper, tight and dripping with poison,

“Do. _Not._ Patronize me.”

“I—"

“I was fine.”

“He sent you his _face—!”_

“Sorry, did you _hear_ me? I was _fine.”_

“Then would you care to tell me why you ran off? Where the _%* &# _was Helena?”

“I was _with_ Helena. We got a lead on a case. We _worked_ that case. And then—”

His mouth twisted in a snarl. “I asked you to stay home!”

Her eyes blew wide. “You _told_ me to park it, and stuck me with a babysitter!”

“No, I called a _friend,”_ Dick snapped. “One who _should_ have been able to keep you out of trouble.”

“Hate to break it to you, boy wonder, but Helena’s _not_ the boss of me.”

“No. She’s your—"

Barbara reared back, a cruel laugh barking out of her throat as she crossed her arms tight and shook her head. Dick startled a little at the sound, but his face molded right back into its stern anger. She laughed again, then said, “Word of advice? Next time you call me a _ba-by-sit-ter?_ Call someone who _actually_ has a &*#% shred of authority over me. Like Artemis, maybe. But do _not_ just call up one of my girls and tell them to feed me animal crackers and put me to bed on time, do you understand me?”

“I don’t like your tone,” he said flatly. “And that is _not—”_

“I don’t like _your_ tone!”

“Then maybe grow the #*%$ up! Joker got into the house!” He tossed his arms out to the side with a huff. Tapped them against his chest. “How the #$%% am I _supposed_ to be reacting right now?”

“Technically? _Harley_ got into the house.”

“ _Harley—!?”_

Barbara threw up a hand. Waved it over her shoulder as she brushed off his shocked outcry. “I had it handled. This may come as a surprise to you, Grayson, but I can actually hold my own. Benching me was—"

“You didn’t see the library,” he hissed, drawing himself to his full height. It was something she wasn’t used to seeing—not the height, but the sheer _anger_ in the way he rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath. “Innocent civilians, gassed and shot. Everywhere. It was like a warzone, and honestly, I’m _glad_ you weren’t there.”

She stepped closer now. Inches away from his face. Barbara was close enough now that she could see every line on his face, every flash of anger in those beautiful eyes. And it _infuriated_ her. How dare he be angry with her for striking out on her own?

“Last I checked?” Her voice was soft, and yet it strangely seemed to carry more weight in the air between them. “We’re both adults. And this _relation_ ship is not a _dictator_ ship.”

His eyes narrowed. “You know? I was actually thinking the same thing.”

“Oh, do _not_ turn this back on me.”

“Why not? You’re the one who’s—”

A cellphone’s frantic chime cut him off. Both of their mouths snapped sharply shut, eyes going down to Dick’s pocket, which dinged again. Then, again. And _again_ , before it began to buzz.

“I think you’re getting a call,” Barbara sneered.

“I think I’m going to answer it.”

“Good. Wonder what it’s going to tell you _this_ time?”

Dick glowered. Dug his hand into his pocket to fish out his phone, then pressed it to his ear, never pausing to take his eyes off of hers.

“Grayson,” he snapped. “What—”

His eyes flew open wide. “ _Selina?”_

Barbara almost bit her tongue in half. _& *$#_ _it._

Dick pressed the phone _hard_ against his ear, turning away from her. He pivoted on his heel, looking out to sea as he stumbled towards the railing. Barbara nibbled her lip as she watched him collapse against the iron rung, shoulders tight and raised around his neck. She could hear him murmuring vague replies to their common ally—though Barbara may need to rethink the word ‘ally’ after whatever it was Selina had to tell her partner—but mostly, he was quiet. Listening. Frowning.

The phone conversation went on for ages. If Barbara listened carefully, she could hear the dull drone of cops and people, radio chatter and footsteps. In between the sounds of the crime scene, plucky carnival tunes plinked over tinny speakers, doing their best to keep up the signature mood of Amusement Mile. After all, there were still plenty of people around who were still just trying to enjoy their night. Without all of the terror of the last few hours. Without all the fear that followed amber goggled-eyes and gleaming bronze talons. And certainly without all of the baggage that came with _weeks_ of never really _talking_ to each other, fleshing things out and being _honest—_

“T-thank you Selina. Yeah. I…I will. Thank you for telling me.” Dick swallowed. She could see the bob of his throat, and the clench of his jaw, as she sauntered over to the empty spot just a foot or two to his right. Her elbows pressed against the top rung, hands dangling over the edge. She couldn’t feel the iron through her elbow guards, but she could imagine the chill they must have carried; she felt that same chill in her bones.

“You, too.” Dick sounded like he was forcing the words out. “Bye.”

He lowered the phone. Brushed the ‘end call’ button with the pad of his thumb.

And when he looked up at her through the bangs of his hair, his eyes were deadly.

Dick whispered, “Barbara. _What…_ did you _do?”_

Her fingers curled into fists. “This time?” she muttered. Met his gaze as her chin snapped up. “You’re going to have to be more specific, _Wingnut.”_

And without breaking that fury-filled eye contact, he slammed his finger against the screen of his phone. Audio filtered through the speaker. Quiet, but clearer than the smoggy night sky.

_“Yes. You’re her. Barbara Kean, but…also… You’re the Batwoman.”_

Edward Nygma’s grainy voice made her skin crawl. Like a thousand spiders skittering over her arms, her back. Up her neck and into her hair. Crawling down her spine. Barbara’s eyes tore themselves away from the phone to stare up at her partner.

“Dick—” she began.

“Oh, just wait.” His tone was mocking, almost as derisive as it was furious. “It gets better.”

_“Then…that means that Grayson…”_

_“Is just a pawn in the Bats’ grand chess game. Just like Bruce Wayne. You boys seriously think that Batman would let someone like Wayne go unprotected? After all the funding he’s provided for our little…crusade?”_

Hearing her own voice, disconnected from herself, made Barbara’s blood ice over in her veins. Her eyes flicked between Dick’s stony face to the phone. She couldn’t decide where to put her eyes, which place was worse.

_“That’s where I come in, gentlemen. The perfect little ‘in’. Of course, Brucie’s never been into younger women. Some kind of moral thing, I’d guess. But Grayson was perfect. Just the right age, and just close enough to Bruce that I can keep an eye on things for Batman.”_

Dick tapped the phone screen. This time, so gently, that it was slightly unsettling. He settled his gaze on her, face betraying nothing. The fact that it had gone _so_ expressionless was the most unsettling thing of all.

Barbara opened her mouth. Then snapped it shut.

“Not sure what to say to that?” Dick said tonelessly. “Good. I’m not either.”

“Dick—”

“I don’t care what you called me. A _pawn,_ or whatever. That’s just a cover story. You were just working a case. Putting their suspicions to rest. I get _that.”_ His eyes drifted shut. He took a deep breath through his nose, exhaled through his mouth, then curled on hand over the railing to steady himself. “But why— _why the #$%% would you let them get that much?”_

“Because—”

Dick held up the phone. The movement was flippant. Her voice on the speaker was even more so--

_“Because I feel like it.”_

Barbara’s forearms slid against the rung. Now she could grip the railing with both fists.

“That’s not—"

“You’ve ‘felt like’ doing a lot of things, lately,” Dick growled. “You told them your secret—”

“I _found out_ that they’re working for the Owls!” she snapped back, “And that this network we’ve stumbled on might actually be bigger than we thought! How is that not a good thing?”

His eyes narrowed. “There were other options. Other ways to get that intel. But you didn’t care about that. Didn’t stop to think. Didn’t even take a _second_ to—”

“Not fair.”

“I’ll bet that’s what those Joker thugs were thinking when you tore them to shreds,” Dick hissed. When he saw her stung expression, he plowed on. “That’s right. I know all about that. I mean, I _had_ my suspicions, but just now? When Selina told me about her contact in the GCPD? Who saw Batwoman leaving the scene of a brutal assault on three men, two of which were sent straight to intensive care? Oh, _all_ the pieces started to click, Babs. She also said that _maybe_ I should be keeping a closer eye on you. I wonder why that is?” He leaned closer. Towering over her. “Just tell me _why._ Why you went that far. That is, if you’re in the mood to share.”

Instead of leaning away from his closeness, she leaned in. Narrowed her eyes as she bared her teeth. “I took two rapists off the streets,” she snarled, words slow and scraping. “I took _my_ rapists off the streets before they could hurt anyone else.”

His eyes lost their fire. “They were the—”

“Yeah. They were. But by all means,” Barbara threw an arm out, eyes dark. “Proceed. Don’t back down now, you _^$$#*!%._ Tell me what a terrible person I am. A terrible person who can’t keep their emotions in check, so she needs to be kept under lock and key!”

“Look, that’s not the iss—”

“Yes, it _is_ the issue! If you would just _trust_ me to handle things, then maybe—”

“ _Trust you?”_

His voice snapped like a thundercrack, and it almost split Barbara wide open. She took a step back, startled. His eyes were narrowed. And beneath the lowered lids, she could see them glowing a soft, emerald green. (Little did she know that her eyes had been doing the same.) Dick’s mouth pulled into a tight snarl as he advanced.

“Trust you,” he repeated with a derisive laugh. “You barely tell me the time of _day._ And you expect me to trust you? Last I checked, _sweetheart,_ that’s a two-way street!”

He was shouting now. Normal Barbara would have shrunk back. Tried to talk things out, understand things from his perspective, because normal Dick would…would _not_ be talking to her this way. Not unless something painful had been simmering under the surface—something he’d been swallowing down for far too long.

But Barbara had had a _long_ night. She was done being coddled and condescended to. She was tired of rolling over and accepting anything _Batman_ had to say, and it was about time she let him know.

But before she could snap his head off his shoulders, he plowed on, with even more heat.

“You say you trust me and then you hide _everything! We_ were supposed to be a united front, remember? Batman and Batwoman, us versus everyone else! But then _you_ go dark, Babs!” He jabbed a finger, and it landed squarely between the ears of her symbol. “You keep going off the rails, and when _anyone_ tries to stop and help, you bite their heads off. Me, Tim, Jason, Steph, Selina…#$%%, the only reason you haven’t snapped at Dami yet is because he’s too scared to talk to you!”

Barbara drew back. “I—”

“Don’t you dare talk to me about trust, alright?” He blew past her, knocking her shoulder so roughly, that it made her head spin.

So Barbara pivoted, rushed after him.

“We’re not done here,” she snapped. “We—”

“No. Not ‘we’.” His head whirled around, and when he fixed her with his most hatred-filled gaze yet…this time, she did shrink.

“What—”

“ _We_ don’t need to do anything, Babs. If you’ve got to figure your own $#!^ out, then do it. But, if it pleases her highness, would you quit dragging everyone else down with you?” He turned. “I’m done trying to get through to you.”

He marched around the corner of the tent. Barbara re-fixed her mask and hurried after him.

And they both almost collided head-on with Raya Vestri.

“Dick!” she gasped. Barbara watched her eyes go wide with sickly-sweet concern. “Oh my gosh, are you okay? Why are you crying? What happened?”

Barbara’s heart twinged. She took a step forward, but when he turned his head again, his expression made her stop short. Angry eyes, that were indeed brimming over, narrowed when he saw her standing there.

“Nothing, Rai,” he clipped.

She watched with wide eyes as his hands went to Raya’s wrists, holding them gently. Barbara looked up at him, but he’d turned away, focused completely on the girl from the circus.

“In fact,” he added gently, “You know what? I think popping a few bottles with the old crew sounds _great._ That is, if you’re still up for it?”

“Yes!” She beamed, eyes lighting up. “C’mon. Let’s go round up the others and…”

She continued to chatter. Barbara could feel something ringing in her ears, growing louder and louder. She watched the way Raya’s hands lingered over his body, brushing and feeling, and—

Barbara squeezed her eyes shut against the noise. Then, when they snapped open, she strode forward. Brushed past Dick, making sure that her shoulder clipped his. As she passed, he turned his head, leaned in and whispered,

“Don’t bother waiting up.”

Through her teeth, “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

She stomped away, taking great pleasure in the sound her boots made—angry and clomping—against the wooden boards beneath her feet. She pushed past GCPD officers and detectives, weepy witnesses and curious carnival-goers, and scanned the crowd. Bobbing heads were everywhere; the crowds were thick. But for some reason, she had a sneaking suspicion that her siblings weren’t far.

There. Stephanie’s blonde waves stood out like a neon sign amongst the dark winter coats. Barbara pushed through the crowd, ignoring the gasps and flashing camera phones as she waded through the sea of bodies. She was used to fanfare, and she was used to being annoyed. So the only thing that hindered her was the lingering sting in her chest. Like a searing needle piercing right through the atrium of her heart.

Her hand clapped over Steph’s shoulder, and she whirled around.

“Bab—uh, Batwoman!” she cried, grinning ear to ear. The boys whirled around, matching smiles lighting them up like carnival signs.

But everyone’s expressions froze over when they caught sight of their older sister’s face. Barbara could feel something wet on her cheeks, but didn’t pause to think too hard on it.

Through gritted teeth, she said,

“We’re going home. _Now.”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dina Lance fell back into the mattress with the most contented sigh she’d heard out of her own mouth in a _long_ time. The sound of it was muffled by her partner’s soft groan, carnal and satisfied. The sheets were warm and soft against her bare skin, and she took a moment to take in the texture, still buzzing in an afterglow as bright as a supernova.

Above her, Dina’s bedmate shifted, leaning his elbows against the mattress on either side of her shoulders. The look in his dark eagle eyes was predatory, like he wanted to take a bite of her—and that was _so_ much hotter than she would’ve ever expected. The way his shaggy hair hung over his forehead—framing that beautiful, beautiful face—didn’t do her heartrate any favors either.

“&*#%,” he rumbled. She could feel the vibration of his voice in his chest. He leaned down, nosing her neck until she tipped up her chin. Teeth grazed her throat, dragged down to the crook of her shoulder. Dina let out a soft hum of pleasure.

Round two was shorter. But it still left Dina glowing.

“You,” she breathed, as he rolled off of her. “Are an incredible lay. Has anybody ever told you that?”

He landed on the mattress, rocking the bed under his weight, and joined her in watching the ceiling.

“Mm. Not really,” he rumbled back. There was a self-satisfied little note of humor in his voice that made her grin.

She turned her head, nuzzling the pillow a little to shift the hair out of her face. And she looked at him, _really_ looked at him. The profile of his face—roman nose, straight cheekbones, square jaw—and the outline of his broad shoulders. He looked, for all the world, like a demigod of antiquity. A marble bust, with veins of black running through the stone.

Calvin Rose turned his head, meeting her eyes. She was struck again by those golden irises. In the half-light of the lamp at the room’s corner, they were luminous. Watchful. Dangerous. Like a screech owl just before the dive. And instant before the kill.

He smiled his little half-smile. The one he’d had since they were just kids. And with that one small gesture, she felt her heart burst.

“&*#, I missed you,” she whispered.

His fingers trailed over her cheek. She could feel the soft brush of her hair against her skin, and it sent shivers along the back of her neck. Every touch seemed to light her up like fireworks. She was really going to have to work on that, if she was going to keep up the ‘no-care attitude’ she usually showed off for any guy who got too close.

Men, in Dina’s experience, were ridiculously easy to play, because they only ever seemed to want one thing. Sometimes, it was the same thing she wanted, so she’d go along with their flirtations and showboating. Pretend that they’d outwitted her— _conquered_ her, even—and then she’d kick them to the curb when she was done. All she had to do was act like a ‘frigid &!^$%’, and they’d lose her number. Granted, the persistent ones—and there were _always_ persistent ones—made trouble for her sometimes. Usually, though, one use of her Canary Cry was enough to scare those ones off for good.

But Cal…Cal was different. He’d always been able to get under her skin. See her for who she really was. No masks required.

“I’ve missed you as well,” he told her gently. A line appeared between his thick brows.

A puff of laughter brushed from her mouth. “You don’t have to stick to the society talk, bird boy. It’s just me.”

“I know.”

Barbara had warned her to keep her distance. Dragged her aside one night after one of their little meet-and-greets when they’d finished comparing notes on the Court of Owls. Once Calvin had gone, Barbara had wrapped her fingers around Dina’s arm and whispered into her ear,

“I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t trust _anybody,”_ Dina had scoffed.

“First off, not true. It’s just…something isn’t right about this. I…I _want_ to trust him, Di. I really do. But for now…” She’d trailed off. Looked at the jagged horizon through narrowed eyes. “Just keep him at arms’ length. Promise?”

It was classic Barbara. Everyone was always ‘guilty until proven innocent’ with her. Dina blamed it on Bruce. That megalomaniac had taken her in, and passed every paranoid conspiracy in his labyrinthine skull on to his younger partner. And if Dina had only been there…if she hadn’t gone and #*&$%# off to L.A. for all those years…maybe things would’ve been different.

Still, for all her paranoia and trust issues, Barbara was _right,_ more often than not.

Which was why Dina really should have seen the claws around her throat coming.

The metal of his talons was chill and sharp against her soft skin. Like ice. She swallowed hard, felt the sharp tips bob against her neck’s most sensitive places. And when she spoke, it was a hoarse, muttered complaint.

“ _Ugh_. Babs is _never_ going to let this die.”

Calvin leaned over her, looming and close. But this time around, it wasn’t exactly sexy. The gauntlet he wore, holding a plethora of hidden blades and sharp attractions, clenched around her throat painfully. His eyes narrowed to malevolent slits, and she could feel his breath puff against her face as he hissed, “Scream, and I will kill you. Speak, and I will kill you. You are going to hold absolutely still—”

“Or you’ll kill me,” Dina deadpanned. “Thanks, Cal, I think I’ve got it.”

Then, after a few tense seconds, “Wait. Were you wearing that when we—?”

He bared his teeth, expression forcing her to trail off into silence.

And with that, the answer to an unspoken question—why would he want her quiet if the Tower was practically deserted?—came in the form of a slammed door. The noise was distant, muffled by the layers of drywall and plywood, but she could recognize the familiar sound of Helena coming home to the Clocktower after a long night. She usually stumbled in around three or four in the morning on any given evening. One that involved drinking more often than not. And it seemed like tonight fit into the ‘more often’ category. Dina could hear her friend slur,

“Dawn, yer nev’r gonna buh- _lieve_ the night I just ‘ad.”

Dawn answered from her usual perch on the couch, but her voice was too soft. Dina could only guess at her reply. But Helena’s rebuttal wasn’t hard to make out.

“Got lad…laid. By Cat-friggin’- _woman_. It was _epic.”_

Dina, in spite of the claws circling her trachea, raised an eyebrow. Calvin shifted over the top of her, muscles seeming to strain with the effort of holding back his talons. If she didn’t know better, Dina might have thought that he was trying _not_ to slash her open.

She could hear Dawn’s voice, closer now, as she and Helena walked down the hall.

“We should get you to bed, Hel.”

“Pfft.” Helena let out a long, wheezing smatter of laughter. It was high-pitched and unhinged, which told Dina all she needed to know about the kind of night the other woman had had. Helena could usually drink everyone else under the table. If she was _this_ plastered, she must have drained someone’s entire stash. “I don’ need _bed_ Dawnny! Jus’ wan’ more wine. You got any?”

Dawn groaned. Based on their footsteps, it sounded like she was dragging Helena. Maybe even carrying her completely. “ _You_ are going to have the hangover of your life tomorrow, sweetheart.”

“Word...uh…worth it. _Buon vino fa buon sangue…_ ha!”

Dawn grumbled, “I just had to take _French_ in high school…”

They were passing her door now. Dina shifted on the bed. Just barely, but it was enough that Cal squeezed the claws deeper into her skin. She hissed through her teeth.

 _“Quiet.”_ His whispered warning was not given lightly.

“Dina’ll lemme drink. Hey Dina!” There was a pound on the door, off-rhythm and too loud. “Dina come drink with us!”

_Open the door. Open the door, Hel. You’ve never cared about privacy before. Now open the &*#% door._

But Huntress just continued to bang her fist.

Dina threw caution to the wind. “He—!”

Calvin’s hand contracted, cutting her air off completely. It hurt, and she could feel the warm trickle of blood streaming down her neck, pooling in the hollow of her collarbone. A weak gurgle bubbled from her throat, and it must have sounded like something totally different to her unsuspecting comrades, because Dawn let out a scandalized squeak.

“Oh my &*#!  Shh, Hel!” Dawn chided. “She’s got a ‘friend’ over tonight. Let’s not bother them, okay?”

 _No, no, no,_ she thought desperately. Her mind whirled as her eyes darted over Calvin’s stone-hard expression. Her airway was blocked—there was no way a Canary Cry was happening. He pressed her deeper into the mattress and she let out a shattered screech. It was all she could manage.

Helena’s chuckle from the other side of the door was like sandpaper against Dina’s heart. “ _Daaang,_ they’re gettin’ rough in there. Sounds like _somebody_ just—”

“I’m _so_ sorry Di!” Dawn wailed to the door. To Helena, she snapped, “Come _on!_ ”

Their voices faded as they continued off down the hall. Dina’s only hope of rescue…gone. Just like that.

If she had her clothes on—if they were both standing on equal ground, even—she could’ve laid Calvin Rose out flat. If she wasn’t pinned under his full weight, she could’ve rolled him off, kicked him in the groin, shoved his head into a pillow until he stopped moving. _Something._

“You…” she muttered, as soon as he loosened his grip slightly, “You— _heh—_ got me right where you wanted me, didn’t you? _& *$^%!#.”_

His smirk stung more than the knife’s sharp edge. He knew, probably better than she did, that her Canary Cry would be useless with her ribs crushed like this, and her throat one sudden movement away from game over.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” he muttered. His free hand now stroked her cheek once again, gently. It gave her shivers…and not in the same way as it had before. “You’re strong, Dina. Even the Court knows this. It’s why they sent me to…remove you.”

She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, and let them fall shut. Dina heaved a shaky gasp.

“So, you’re… _hhh…_ going to kill me.”

Calvin’s smile reminded her of a shark’s—sharp and hungry. He leaned closer, pressing his lips to the shell of her ear. “Death to all metas,” came his feathery whisper, and she felt panic well up inside of her chest.

This was it. Of all the ways to die, naked and on her back with her throat ripped out, was probably one of the worst.

“But,” came his soft voice again. Dina felt goosebumps pricking at her arms just from the feel of his warm breath on her bare skin. “The Court has sentenced you to a far greater purpose, my love. One of servitude.”

 _No_. Kill her and leave her bloody corpse on the bed for the other Birds to find in the morning. Let her death be a testament to his treachery, the gory hollow of her throat a way to warn Barbara that she’d been right. And to run far, far away from Gotham and Cormorant, and their infestation of owls.

But switching sides?

“ _I would rather die,”_ she hissed.

A wad of saliva splashed against Cal’s cheek, just under his eye. He flicked a thumb over it, with a disgusted frown. Then brought the wet digit to her mouth, streaking it over her lips. “Now, now. None of that,” he chided her, ignoring the way she struggled in his grip. “You are about to be a part of something beautiful. I wish I could give you the choice, dear, but destiny never gives anyone a choice. Not me, not you, and not our little B-girl.”

Dina froze, eyes widening, with Calvin’s thumb in her mouth. He drew it out slowly. Wiped it against the soft underside of her chin. The wetness almost felt like blood, and she shivered in spite of herself.

“W-what…what are you going to do, Cal?” she breathed.

He reached for the bedside table, brushing aside the alarm clock, the condom wrapper, and the loose change that had been sitting there for days with his fingers. Then, he found what he was looking for, and held it up to the light. A small object, no bigger than a popcorn kernel. It didn’t look like anything, really, and yet Dina recognized it in a single moment of heart failure.

She’d helped remove dozens of them from heroes’ ears after the debacle with Roulette.

“This will make you compliant, but you’ll barely even know it’s there,” Calvin soothed. He frowned, though, when Dina suddenly resumed her struggling underneath him. As if he didn’t understand it. Couldn’t _fathom_ why she’d fight this. “Shh. _Trust_ me, Dina. You’ve always trusted me, haven’t you?”

“You _& *$—ah!” _

The talons dug in deeper, sharp and stinging.

“This will all be for the best. You are going to help us with one simple task, and once complete, you will be welcomed into our ranks. You _and_ Barbara.” He leaned in again. Planted a kiss against her lips. Half an hour ago, Dina would have let herself sink into it like it was heaven. But now, all she could do was shiver. Especially when he pulled away to whisper, “And then we will be together again. _Forever.”_

“Not like this,” she whimpered. Closed her eyes tightly. “I didn’t… _hk…_ want it like this.”

His finger was at her ear. Pressing in.

“You’ll thank me later, love. I promise.”

“Cal—” she gasped.

But that was the most she could manage before it all went white.

 

 


	26. Distrust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was...difficult, to say the least. I can't promise that you won't all hate me after this, but I *can* promise that everything works out alright in the end. And that's...really all I can say. I'm so sorry.

 

Dick usually drove.

Everything was contingent on the kind of night they were having, but most of the time, it was Batman who helmed the Batmobile. There was a certain control that Dick had that resulted from _years_ of experience. He had logged the most hours behind the wheel, after all, and no one could drive as quietly, as _stealthily_ , as Dick Grayson.

But Barbara was different.

Car chases were her specialty. She could spin the Batmobile on a dime, whip it around corners, weave it through traffic and wield it like a battering ram—all without even breaking a sweat. She was a pro when it came to fancy driving and stunts that would put any professional to shame. Granted, she had a lead foot, especially when she was emotionally compromised, but no one really minded so long as they caught the bad guy—

—unless they were just trying to drive home after a long night.

The Batmobile listed to the side as Barbara shot around a corner, and a scream went up from the backseat. Stephanie was clutching a giant plushie for dear life, shrieking into its fuzzy purple fur. Damian was crushed against the car door, muttering obscenities that no child his age should know, and Tim was staring blankly ahead, pale as a sheet, and anticipating certain death.

Jason was in the passenger seat, clutching onto the ‘Holy $#!^ Bar’ for dear life. His head whipped around as he shouted, “ _The #$%% is going on with you!?”_

Barbara grit her teeth and spun the wheel. The Batmobile flipped around, tires screeching against the pavement as it slid perpendicular to oncoming traffic.

At least before she gunned the engine, and took off like a shot down a side alley. One that was _barely_ wide enough to fit the vehicle.

If Dick were driving, it might have taken them thirty minutes to get back to the Cave. Twenty-five, if he was feeling dangerous.

But Batwoman had the wheel, so that time was sliced in half. And the needle never dipped below 80.

When they slammed to a halt in the BatCave, everyone was silent. Gripping onto whatever was closest and most stable; be it a seat, a handlebar, a sibling, or a giant stuffed rabbit. Barbara thrust the gearshift into _park,_ and slammed the button that released the hatch with a dull hiss. The others watched as she wordlessly grasped onto the car door, and flipped herself out of the vehicle and onto the ground outside. Her stomping boots and swishing cape were the only human sounds in the Cave as she stalked towards the computer.

Stephanie looked at Jason, who looked at Tim, who looked at Damian. They all wore a frown that was darker than the hidden depths below the Batmobile’s platform. Because they’d all stared at their older sister’s left hand at some point on the drive over (when they weren’t too busy watching for oncoming cars and stray pedestrians).

There was no ring.

And Barbara’s cheeks were streaked with tears.

“Well, something…happened,” Stephanie decided quietly, hugging her stuffed rabbit a little tighter.

“Someone should talk to her,” Jason muttered, looking at each of them in turn. His expression was tight, drawn, and more than a little concerned. “And I think it should be someone she won’t be mad at.”

Jason, Stephanie and Tim all turned to Damian, who blinked blankly.

Then, he caught on.

“What?” The kid’s eyes narrowed. “What am I supposed to do? Talk with Delphi about her _feelings?”_

“He makes a valid point,” Tim muttered darkly.

Steph nibbled her lip. “Mmm…maybe this isn’t the best idea, bud. But she’d never snap at _you._ Okay? Just go see what’s wrong.”

“Please, kiddo,” Jason added.

Damian glowered at each of them in turn, making certain that his annoyance did not go unnoticed. Then, he tumbled out of the car, took a heavy inhaled breath, and walked across the floor towards the Computer.

Barbara had crawled halfway underneath the desk, and was muttering things in a tight, hushed voice that gave him the impression that his elder sister was likely to respond negatively to any questions. Queries such as ‘is everything alright’ or ‘what happened’ would most likely result in a small explosion. Damian knew this from dealing with Talia. His mother was prone to violent fits of rage from time to time, and whatever was nearest usually wound up sliced through with her favorite Shirasaya. So, Damian approached carefully.

He settled himself onto the floor, pulling his legs up beneath him. Now he could hear Delphi’s whispered ranting at a better volume.

“—does he think he is?” She ripped a circuit board from somewhere out of sight and flung it over her shoulder. It clattered metallically across the floor, charred and warped. Just a melted hunk of plastic and metal. “First he goes off about trust, and… _gah,_ how he expects me to trust him when all he ever _does_ is try and control my every move, I’ll never—"

Damian heard the familiar sound of a cable being yanked free. There was a small electrical buzz, and a flash from beneath the desk. But Delphi neither cried out or started convulsing, so he figured she must be fine…at least, physically.

“’Don’t bother waiting up’,” Barbara said in an exaggeratedly low tone. “&*!?#%(%. Sleep on the couch tonight for all I &!$%^#& care. Sleep in the Cave. &*!?#%)%.”

A heap of singed wires was the next object to fly out from the space underneath the desk. It bounced twice, then spun to a stop. Damian stared blankly at the exposed copper wire and melted casing.

“—think I didn’t notice him eyeing that circus chick? Oh-ho, _well—”_

Damian frowned at the hunched line of Batwoman’s shoulders. And that frown only deepened when she let out a frustrated, grating groan. Her head smacked against the underside of the desk so hard that the keyboard and one of Tim’s stray mugs rattled.

Barbara emerged from under the desk with a hand over her mouth. The other curled around the edge of the desk, keeping her upright and allowing her something concrete to grasp onto. She gasped, a thin squeak that made him jump a little. And this time, the movement didn’t go unnoticed.

Delphi whirled around, glistening eyes wide and red-rimmed. She’d discarded her mask at some point between the car and the computer, and so her tears were on full display.

“Dami,” she whispered. “You look like… Is everything okay?”

He nodded carefully. Unsure of how best to proceed. Growing up, whenever he was driven to tears, his mother would regale him with stories of his ancestors—brave men who _never_ stooped to such emotional displays—and make him recite a passage from _The Art of War_ for every tear spilled. Somehow, he didn’t think this would work with Delphi. (He wasn’t even completely certain it had worked with him.)

Barbara was watching him through teary eyes. And perhaps she saw enough explanation in his face, because she squeaked again, this time with both hands pressed over her mouth, and whispered through the overlapped fingers,

“Dami, you know you can talk to me, right?”

Delphi sounded so pathetic—so worthy of pity—and this was so detached from the way Damian was used to seeing her, that his spine straightened and his eyes narrowed.

“What has got you in such a state?” he demanded. His eyes roved over her quickly—no clear bodily injuries, though her uniform was a bit scuffed from the night’s battle. “Did Grayson’s question upset you?”

“Question—?” Barbara lowered her hands. Scowled, and said through her teeth, “He didn’t ask me any _questions._ Just told me _exactly_ what was on his mind.”

“And that is…a _bad_ thing?”

“ _Yes.”_

Emotions like this, Damian decided, were beyond even his level of expertise. And women’s emotions were even more so. He turned his head, throwing his best ‘pitiable’ expression towards his cowardly siblings, who were pretending not to watch from their seats in the Batmobile. When Babs looked their way, they each slowly, carefully, and with as much reluctance as possible, climbed from the vehicle and made their way over.

“Drake,” Damian said, as pleasantly as he could manage, “You have experience with tearful emotional expression. Perhaps you should be the one to handle this.”

Tim’s eyebrows shot up. The others glanced at him with similar expressions, but Tim just shook his head.

“Hey. I don’t…” His eyes landed on Barbara, and then darted away. “I don’t think…”

“Brown? You are a female—"

 “Okay, I _don’t_ like where this is going—”

“—and so are better suited to the task of consolation.”

“ _Damian,”_ Jason hissed.

“What? You cannot just expect me to—"

Barbara could only watch them go back and forth through wide eyes, which seemed to grow _more_ teary with every passing second. While they bantered and bickered back and forth, she sighed, pulling herself upright. Settled herself down in the swiveling chair and crossed her arms tightly over her stomach. When the yelling had reached its peak she barked,

“That’s _enough.”_

The snap of her voice was enough to jerk them all to attention. Spines went straight, mouths snapped shut, and eyes flicked to her tight frown. The sight of it seemed to make Barbara sick to her stomach, and she hugged her arms even tighter around her midsection, a nauseated twist to her mouth.

“Sorry. You…” She swallowed, then tried again. “You guys can—can _tell_ me things, you know. I’m sorry if… I’m sorry if I’ve ever made it seem like you can’t.”

Jason’s eyes went even wider. He opened his mouth, but if he was going to say something, it wouldn’t come.

“I know I haven’t been…the most approachable person, lately,” Barbara said softly. “I know I’ve been a &!^$#—er, sorry, Dami.”

He shrugged. “I have heard worse.”

She bit her lip, eyes rolling up to the stalactites overhead. If her eyes hadn’t been so bleary, she could’ve probably made out a few of the bat colonies that inhabited the spaces between the rocky spikes. But instead, her eyes flicked back down to look at the Cave’s other Bat population.

“But I’m…going to try to be better,” she whispered, voice squeaking. “I…want you guys to feel like you can…I care about all of you. I want to make sure that you all feel…feel _safe,_ and _loved,_ because—because I love all of you. You’re my _family._ And…” She swallowed. “It’s about time I started acting like it, I guess.”

Jason lurched like he had been punched in the gut. “Babs—”

Stephanie crept forward, eyes searching Barbara’s face for something that the boys could only guess at. When she seemed to hit upon something, her eyes widened slightly, and she carefully put a hand on her sister’s shoulder. Then, as if speaking too loudly could cause an avalanche, Stephanie asked,

“Did Dick say something?”

Barbara huffed. “Nothing I didn’t need to hear.”

The heel of her hand swept over one eye, then the other. She’d had heavy eye-makeup on before, and now it smeared dark across her skin. Stephanie wet her thumb and carefully tried to minimize the damage, and Barbara’s eyes flitted closed as her sister worked. She let out a shaky sigh.

“And…nothing that wasn’t true,” she said softly. Then laughed. But it was the breathy, terrible sort of laughter that was more self-derisive than anything. “I’ve…had a conversation like that coming for a while, I guess.”

“Babs…” Tim muttered, scooting closer.

“Said…you were all scared to talk to me,” she whispered, hunching a little further in on herself. “And he’s _right._ The way I’ve been treating you all lately? Not fair. You don’t…you don’t deserve any of it. _”_ Then, a little more quietly. “But I could’ve done without all the yelling.”

“Yelling?” Stephanie looked up at Jason, eyebrows raised. He returned the frown, looking absolutely bewildered. Even Tim and Damian were blinking in confusion.

Because _Dick_ did not yell at _Barbara._ They raised their voices at each other from time to time, and they argued every now and then. But it never ended in _tears._ Right now, their sister was curled up in a chair and practically sobbing, one fist pressed to her lips, with her eyes red and swollen.

This was not one of their usual fights. There was something deeper going on.

“Babs,” Tim managed, turning back to the girl in the chair, “What kind of yelling?”

“Uh…” she swallowed. “Just…yelling? What more can—”

“No, no, like…” Jason gestured vaguely, but his gaze suddenly very, very intense. It was a little frightening, but the others stayed still and silent. Watching to see what would happen. “Like, say, what was the volume like?”

“…loud?”

“And did he start bringing up random $#!^ that you _thought_ he’d gotten over, but was like, dragging up all over again?”

A line appeared between Barbara’s eyebrows, deep with concern.

“And—humor me with this one—did his eyes turn _green?”_

They all turned to watch their older sister’s reaction silently. Barbara frowned, opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her fist returned to her lips, and she shut her eyes. Then, after a few tense seconds, she lowered it, and looked up at them all as she whispered, “Yeah. Yeah, Jay, they…they did.”

“ _Green_ eyes?” Tim demanded. He turned, shaking his head. “That doesn’t make any sense. He would’ve had to—”

He cut off sharply, whirling on Jason and Damian—who were staring back with solemn expressions—and Stephanie, who had possibly never looked more confused in her life. The unspoken word hung in the air like a glowing neon sign. Impossible to ignore, and achingly bright.

“Wait, _did he?”_ Tim whispered in a harried hiss.

“Yeah.” Jason’s voice was as gritty as the broken shards of computer screen that dusted the floor under their feet. He dragged his fingers through his hair, sighing. “Remember when Dick and Babs went missing? Well, Dick…he didn’t make it.”

Stephanie straightened like she’d been tasered. “What do you _mean_ he ‘didn’t make it’? You told me—”

“Gordon shot him. He _died.”_

Jason’s voice cracked through the air, whip-like. Tim and Steph both gaped, mouths hanging open slightly. Dazed as they seemed to struggle under the weight of that statement.

But Damian shuddered in spite of himself. He could still hear those psychopaths’ leering laughter. He could remember the ordeal in its _entirety._ And seeing Grayson look away disinterestedly every time Damian was hit or burned or stabbed or beaten… He knew that it was all done for the sake of his safety; Grayson had apologized profusely in the hospital after the fact. Promised to never, ever, allow something like that to happen to him again. But still…Damian would never forget the way that… _felt._

If he were a lesser being, he would have vowed vengeance on the two men who had held him captive for so long. As it was, he had been shown a higher method of thinking. They would find James Gordon Junior, and bring him to justice.

Though, perhaps, with a few more scrapes than necessary.

That man had killed Grayson. And in order to bring him back, Delphi had been forced to do the unthinkable—

“Babs went to Ra’s,” Jason continued “And they dunked him in the Pit. The green eyes? They’re a side-effect of the water’s ability to raise the dead.”

He turned to Barbara, mouth pulled tight into a frown that meant all sorts of hidden things. Damian wasn’t sure what the two were communicating—he’d never been able to cue in on nonverbal conversation like the others. It was a fact that irked him, but he supposed he would just have to be patient. Sooner or later, they always shared _some_ information.

Tim frowned, leaning against the desk. “But Dick’s eyes are still blue?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, there.” Jason shrugged. “But what we do know is this, guys: Dick died. Dick came out of the Pit. Sometimes his eyes are green, sometimes they’re blue. Meaning…”

“Meaning?” Steph prompted.

“Meaning that something must’ve gone awry in the raising process,” Barbara muttered, hunching her shoulders. There was something haunted creeping through her empty gaze. Like she knew _something,_ but was still reluctant—or maybe even _unwilling—_ to share with the group.

“But, still. He was _dead.”_ Tim shook his head in a daze, fingers tightening over the desk’s edge like it was a life raft, and he was lost at sea. “And whatever else happened, the Pit healed him.”

“It would definitely explain the mood swings.” Jason scratched at his arm absently. Damian could see a muscle in his jaw tense up. “Right now Dick’s probably…he’s probably just super pissed, super cagey, and he doesn’t know why. Honestly, I’m surprised the guy’s lasted this long.”

Tim frowned. “How come?”

Jason looked down at his hand, clenching and unclenching his fingers as if he was trying to grasp something that was just out of reach. “Cause when you come out of that water, everything else kind of goes away. It’s like…’fight or flight’, and all you can think is ‘fight’. Your brain’s telling you you’re in danger, and everyone’s an enemy, and the only thing that matters is _escape_. It…takes a while to wear off, but in the meantime…”

“The Pit lowers the serotonin levels in the brain,” Damian said with a shrug, “which regulate anger and aggression. But my grandfather used to say that the Pit brings out a person’s worst qualities?”

“I don’t think that’s it. When I…” Jason swallowed. Tipped his head back, chin in the air. “Came back. When I _came back,_ it happened right away. Bruce always used to say that my ‘impulsivity’ was my worst quality. That it’d get me killed someday. And, I mean, it _did…_ but when I came back all I could feel was just…”

He waved a hand in the air. Even though the others waited with baited breath and patient frowns, Jason didn’t seem able to continue that thought. At least, not without a little help.

So, Barbara dipped her head and asked, “Was it anger?”

He shook his head listlessly. “No…no, it was different. I mean, I was mad. _#$%%_ yes, I was mad. I woke up in a &*#% _coffin_. Had to crawl my way out with my bare hands, make my way back to Quarac, and find Ra’s. Came back to Gotham and Bruce had replaced me with him—” Jason flung a hand towards Tim, who scrunched his face up indignantly. “—you and Dick had already moved on, and the Joker was still alive. I was—”

“Hurt.” Barbara’s shoulders dropped. “You were hurt.”

He snapped his fingers. “That’s…that’s it, yeah.”

Then, Tim raised a palm and said, slowly, “Okay. But. Jason just said that the reaction was immediate. Why haven’t we seen rage-monster Grayson?”

“I was _not_ a rage mon—”

“You killed dozens of people and handcuffed me to a bed in your apartment,” Tim snapped. “You were a rage monster. What I’m _saying,_ is that we should have seen some sort of extreme reaction from Dick before now, so…why haven’t we?”

Everyone frowned.

Barbara’s eyes twitched a little wider. Her lips cracked open, as if she wanted to say something, but her mouth snapped shut.

“Maybe he is just…strong.” Damian shrugged. “Grandfather was able to build up an immunity to the Pit. He no longer flies into a severe post-resurrection rage, and some of the assassins we have raised have managed to avoid the effects.”

Jason tensed, arms crossing over his chest. “You saying I wasn’t strong enough? That _that’s_ why I started killing people and $#!^?”

“Jay, no.” Steph shook her head. She reached out, laying a hand on his arm. “Hey. Remember what the fortune teller lady said?”

Damian raised an eyebrow, but Tim was nodding. Barbara could only frown in confusion. She glanced around the room, as she asked, “What ‘fortune teller lady’?”

“At the circus,” Tim said with a vague wave of his hand. His eyes never left Barbara’s face, though, and Damian could clearly see the silent question behind his sharp gaze. But he continued, “There was this pair of fortune tellers who ‘read our futures’—our _pasts,_ really. We heard some pretty…freaky stuff.”

“One thing they said about you was how strong you are, Jay,” Stephanie said. Her fingers tightened a little on Jason’s wrist, and her frown deepened. “And that’s true. Fortune telling may be a load of crap, but they got that right, at least. You’re one of the strongest people I know.”

Tim looked away, and Barbara’s frown deepened. “Alright, I guess that makes sense,” she said, like it had a question mark tagged on the end. “But—”

Jason pressed his forehead against his girlfriend’s and said softly. “No, that title goes to you, babe. I don’t care what you said in there. You’re incredible.”

Stephanie huffed a little, disbelieving, and pulled away. “Uh-huh. I appreciate that. But we both know it’s not true.” She squared her shoulders, and her jaw. “Now. Back to the Pit business—”

“Hold up.” Barbara threw up a hand to emphasize her point, and the others paused when she leaned forward. Her frown was careful, her brows lowered in confusion. “What’s not true? I feel like I’m missing something here.”

Steph bit her lip. “It’s not—”

Jason reached up, pressing a thumb to the side of her cheek. With an indignant frown, he snapped, “She said that none of us have any expectations for her. She called herself ‘the _dumb_ one’.”

“Jay…” Steph muttered.

But Barbara had gone rigid, eyes blown wide. “What?”

Stephanie put up a hand, and sighed. “Look. It doesn’t matter. Let’s just—”

The words died in her throat as Barbara shot to her feet. She scooped her mask up off the desk and fixed it to the rest of her uniform. It attached with a small series of clicks, and only served to make her frown all the more menacing.

“You. Suit up. _Now.”_

Stephanie’s eyes widened. “I’m s-sorry?”

“You heard me, Batgirl,” Barbara said, clasping her arms behind her back. She stood at attention, and just then, she looked _exactly_ like Bruce Wayne. Batman. Commanding and stern, no-nonsense and all steel. The others reacted accordingly, going stiff, nodding slowly.

Without further protest, Steph bounded off towards the suit cases, slamming a hand on the glass and reaching inside for her uniform. Barbara relaxed her shoulders slightly, letting out a soft sigh as she turned to Jason.

“We’ll continue this conversation later, I promise,” she said.

Jason raised an eyebrow. “What are you…?”

“I need air, and she needs a boost. Besides, I think Batwoman and Batgirl are overdue for a girl’s night out.” Something like a smile twitched at the corner of Barbara’s mouth. “Or, girl’s _morning_ out, as the case may be. And I think you boys have earned yourself a quiet night in. You think you can handle your brothers for a few hours?”

Tim frowned, raising a hand. “I’m eighteen, Babs. I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Oh, believe me, I _know.”_ She sighed, a hand on her hip. “Order a pizza or something. Watch a movie. Pretty sure Dami’s never seen half of the DVDs up there. And Netflix is always an option, too. Go wild. Just don’t set anything on fire.”

“It’s like… _one in the morning.”_

“So?”

Jason chuckled. “ _So._ Any guy that delivers to us this late’s gonna be ticked as #$%%.”

“So, tip ‘em.” Barbara shrugged. “No big deal.”

Steph jogged over, panting, but dressed. Everything was in place—suit and boots zipped up, belt slung over her hips, and gauntlets buckled—except for her cowl. She stuffed her hair inside, pulling it out through the small hole in the back, and when they all heard the series of clicks, she grinned. Shot Barbara a set of thumbs up.

“Ready!” she gasped.

“Good time,” Barbara praised. Checked something on her gauntlet. “Forty-five seconds.”

“I’ll cut that in half, next time.”

“Tt. No one’s ever gone below thirty. You’re fine, Steph.” She tapped her sister on her caped shoulder, and turned to the boys. “You’ve got this?”

Jason shot Barbara a two-fingered salute. “Please. I can handle these two delinquents.”

“These two ‘delinquents’ might just handle you,” Tim muttered with a scowl.

Damian cracked his knuckles.

“I’ll pacify them with popcorn,” Jason amended. He shot Steph a smile. “Good luck out there, babe.”

She winked. “You too.”

The girls turned, and strode towards the Batmobile. Their steps were perfectly matched, their capes making the same swirls behind their retreating heels. Two curtains of black, two she-bats going out to wreak havoc.

As they swung themselves into the car, capes flashing purple and red, they waved. At least, before the hatch slid shut with a hiss above their heads. The Batmobile grumbled as it woke, headlights glowing and engine humming like some snoring beast. But then the beast roared when Barbara hit the gas, and they shot from the cave like a pair of bats out of #$%%.

Jason turned to look at Tim, who turned to Damian, who turned to Jason.

“So.” The oldest of the trio rubbed his hands together. “Who’s up for a little _Braveheart?”_

“Jay, that’s rated R,” Tim groaned, eyes narrowed.

“Yeah. What’s the problem?”

Tim waved a hand at Damian, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.

“Eh, he’s seen worse. ‘Sides…” Jason spun towards the elevator and took off like a shot. “First one upstairs gets first dibs!”

  

 

* * *

 

 

Dick felt _terrible._

His mind was still reeling as Raya dragged him past curious bystanders and various loitering members of law enforcement. They threaded easily through the crowds, and people parted for them like the Red Sea. Their glittering costumes were the only ID they had to flash to prove they belonged. Still, he doubted anyone would have bothered them, anyway. A girl dragging a crying man along behind her could’ve probably been interpreted several different ways, given the context of the night’s attack.

Dick had a feeling that the makeup they’d put on him was running.

And his chest felt scraped out and hollow, Barbara’s words still ringing in his ears.

 _Last I checked, this was a_ relation _ship, not a_ dictator _ship…_

_Just a pawn in the Bats’ grand chess game…_

Even louder were the words he’d said—no, _shouted._ He’d been so angry, and so…

Hurt?

That seemed like the only possible fit for the crossword puzzle of his scattered emotions. He wasn’t just mad, or sad, or frustrated. He was _hurt._

And all because of those phone calls. Maybe Dick had already been on edge from what that strange Talon had hissed at him, talking about hurting Barbara…plans to hurt her _more_ … But when Alfred had called, he’d felt the blood drain out of his face, his heart sputter to a complete stop. His mind had flown straight to worst-case scenarios, back to that night—that fateful phone call from Bruce—

 _Dick…_ Son… _I don’t know how to tell you this—_

_—Barbara’s been shot. And…_

And he’d been scared. _Terrified._ Then, and now.

Granted, he should’ve handled it differently. Should’ve handled it _better._ He’d been cold. He’d been abrasive. But something about the angry set to Barbara’s jaw and the way that her eyes and teeth flashed as she snarled rebuttal after rebuttal…it had put him on the defensive. And something inside of him had come running, roaring, ready to rip into the threat.

He never should have seen Barbara as a threat. _Never._

There must have been something wrong with him…

But he didn’t know what.

When Selina had called—she’d clearly been drinking; he could hear it in her slushing words and lilting tone—he’d been tempted to hang up, certain that she was too intoxicated for any real conversation. (Not to mention that he’d sort of been in the middle of something.) But before he had the chance, she played him a recording. Apparently, Selina took it from a tracker she’d put on Barbara, or so she told him in so many blurred words. And he could feel his pulse spike at the sound of his girlfriend’s sultry voice, could practically see that sensuous smile, and every seductive movement.

 _That_ had stung a little. He wasn’t sure why; it wouldn’t have been Barbara’s first time in the role of seductress. #$%%, how many operations had the two of them pulled off for Bruce by playing to their targets’…urges? And yet, for whatever reason, hearing his lover make those advances—advances that weren’t directed at _him—_ rubbed Dick the wrong way. Made something inside of him stir, growling possessively. Barbara was _his,_ &*#% it.

Then the laugh. That _laugh_ had jarred him to his core.

But it was nothing compared to hearing Barbara hand out her secret— _the_ secret—like it was _nothing…_

Dick wasn’t proud of how he reacted. Not at all. And yet…he had the sense that it hadn’t been entirely _up_ to him. The hazy cloud of rage that had settled over him seemed to coax the more rational side of his mind into a nap. Laying bare every sliver of pain or hurt he’d felt in the last few weeks, because Barbara _said_ that she trusted him, but when it came right down to it, she wouldn’t tell him a &*#% thing.

They’d worked together for _years._ A lifetime.

Dick didn’t know a lot of things, but one thing he could always count on was his partner.

Or so he’d thought.

He knew her so well that it made her secrecy hurt that much more. There was something going on—something big. So big, and so scary, that it was giving her nightmares almost night after night. Bad dreams had been a constant for all of them—just an occupational hazard when you fought monsters and saw new, bloody, screaming, horrors every night—but these had been different. Usually, the Joker played the starring role in Barbara’s dreams. A grinning reminder of her trauma, a phantom pain in the dark.

But not lately.

Lately, she’d been tossing and turning, muttering intelligibly into her pillow. Some words stood out: ‘alive’, ‘save them’, or ‘please’. But it was mostly the quiet sobbing and whimpering that made his heart lurch as he laid beside her every night. Helpless to do anything but offer promises of support, a shoulder to lean on, a listening ear.

All empty, since she’d chosen to brush him aside like it didn’t matter. Like _none of it_ mattered.

He could handle secrets. #$%%, his whole _life_ revolved around them.

But whatever secrets were churning inside of Barbara’s head…they were hurting her. And seeing her so hurt and being unable to help was…it was…

_…Infuriating._

Yes, there was something wrong—something _angry_ —inside of him.

And he didn’t know what.

“To not dying!” someone with a heavy Slovenian accent shouted, laughing heartedly. The sound was drowned out by a chorus of yells and cackling and little clinks and taps of plastic and glass. The sound jarred Dick back to the present.

He’d barely even noticed coming into the circus tent. Hadn’t registered sitting down, balanced on the raised center ring with the rest of the circus and crew, all of them seated together in one large, happily familial circle, or having a paper cup of something blush-colored placed into his hand. Every movement had been robot-like, his mind in a haze. But with the next loud cheer that went up from the group, and the raised cups and glasses, he snapped back into the real world.

“And to old friends!” Raya announced, lifting her own glass. Her eyes flitted to him, and she shot Dick a quick wink.

He gripped his cup a little tighter, then lifted it.

“You don’t drink.”

The small voice made him pause. He looked to his right, found nothing, then to the left, and saw Christina perched at his side, looking up at him with her wide, all-seeing green eyes. There was something to the set of her jaw, the twist of her lips, and the arch of her eyebrows that set off warning bells in Dick’s mind. It was such a serious expression for such a little kid. Even her statement, which could have been phrased as a question, had an air of conviction. Maybe even—

“Dickie?” Raya’s breath puffed by his right ear. Laughter and old friendly jokes were barking and floating through the air. A comforting din. A familiar chaos. It buzzed through his blood, giving him another overdose on nostalgia. But Raya’s voice smoothed that sound over into something gentler. Something more inviting. He could hear her continue softly, “Is something wrong? Do you not like Rosé?”

“He doesn’t drink,” Christina said a little louder. A little more insistent.

Raya hummed indulgently. “Setting a good example? It’s okay, Chrissie’s just having apple juice.”

“I—” Dick swallowed his own saliva and looked around the tent. “No. It’s okay. I usually don’t…um, _imbibe._ Messes with my—” He almost said something else, before settling on, “job.”

She blinked. Straightened. “Oh! Do you have work tomorrow?”

“Ehm, not really, but...”

A pout. “Tonight?”

“…no.”

Her eyes lit up. It was really something. “Then why not let loose? Just have a sip or three. I mean, it’s a _celebration!”_ She waved an arm towards the center of the circle. Dick could see everyone around him—his old family and friends—laughing and enjoying themselves. She leaned in closer, pressed to his shoulder. The sudden contact made something inside him flinch a little, and he pulled away.

Her eyes were glinting beautifully in the Big Top’s buttery light. A warm smile curled at her lips as she softly told him, “You saved my life tonight, Dick Grayson. I owe you for that. Can’t I start by having a drink with you?”

It wasn’t a moral thing. Bruce had just always ‘discouraged’ alcohol consumption, just like he ‘discouraged’ fast food or extreme dieting. If you were going to leap off of rooftops and lay a beat-down on thugs every night, you needed to be in peak condition. And it was best to avoid things that would impair your ability to think straight or throw a punch.

Still, though, it wasn’t like Dick had never had a drink in his life.

And after tonight…

“I mean.” Dick shrugged, managing a slight grin. “When you put it that way…”

Raya giggled, shoulders shaking as she knocked against him playfully.

His eyes drifted down to the liquid in the cup. Sure, it was cheap stuff—probably all the others had been able to get ahold of with such short notice. And, on the road, no less. Touring in Europe was one thing, but in America, or _Gotham_ especially, the good stuff wasn’t always readily available. He blinked, and saw his rosy reflection do the same. “I’ll be fine if I don’t have too much.”

She glanced up, beaming, then raised her cup for a toast.

It wasn’t hard to return the smile. But as he lifted his own cup to toast hers, something hit into his elbow.

He lurched a little, arm jerking. The blow was just hard enough that the contents of his cup splashed over the rim, spattering the dust at their feet with dark speckles. He and Raya both let out a sound of surprise, recoiling from the spill, though not quickly enough to avoid the splash. Droplets flecked over the toes of Raya’s shoes. Dick’s wrapped feet were suddenly wet.

Christina was edging away innocently. Maybe a little _too_ innocently.

“Oh, &*#% it,” Raya sighed with a laugh. “Here, let me go get you some more.”

She took his cup and hopped off the ring. They both watched her saunter off to Bryan, who was guarding the stash of wine bottles and beer cans like a dragon hoarding gold. Dick swept his eyes off of her, and let them fall on the young girl next to him.

Christina was looking away, off towards the Big Top’s entrance. She was so obviously _not_ looking at him, that Dick didn’t miss the hint. He tapped her on the shoulder, making her jump a little, and she blinked up at him.

“Hey.” He kept his tone gentle. “Is everything okay?”

She bit her lip, eyes pleading. “I can’t…”

“There we go!” Raya walked over, and remained standing as she offered him a new paper cup. “Not exactly our finest wine glasses, but I’m sure you’ll get over it.”

Christina’s frown deepened. But Dick stood, accepted the cup, and held it up like an Olympic torch. The other performers looked over, and when they saw that it was him with a toast, they cheered and whooped. Glasses were raised all around the ring, and people shook with laughter and chuckling. Most of them still remembered little Dickie Grayson as a spunky pre-adolescent. Seeing him now, all grown up with a drink in hand, brought a smile to more than one face.

“To your best performance yet.” He chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “Thank goodness you all picked up some real talent!”

There was a smattering of sudden barks of laughter and light-hearted jeers. Jimmy threw himself backwards with a howl and saluted Dick with his own glass. Bryan smirked. Some of the other performers let out gasps of mock-outrage.

Raya tipped her head back with a laugh. “Grayson, you #$$!”

But she tapped the rim of her cup against his anyway. There was no satisfying _clink,_ but he figured he’d get over it. They raised them to their lips, and Dick could feel the cool liquid swish down his throat. He expected the burn, but the Rosé had a salty tang that he wasn’t expecting. When it hit his tongue, it was subtle, and definitely a surprise, but it wasn’t completely unpleasant. He smacked his lips with the flavor of it, and shot the girl across from him a cocky grin.

Raya was watching him with glittering eyes over the rim of her own cup. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she said,

“Hey. There’s something I’ve been meaning to show you.”

He found that there was a smile pulling at his mouth as well. “Yeah?”

“Hmm,” she tipped her head. “Yeah. Follow me?”

The other circus members goaded him on, laughing, so Dick didn’t have much choice. She wrapped his hand in her soft fingers, and pulled him along, giggling. But he didn’t fight it, just felt a wave of relief wash over him. Something warm and bubbly that made him want to laugh.

Barbara was mad at him. There was no way around that. And he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little mad at her, too. So if Dick was going to be in the doghouse, he’d &*#% well better enjoy it. And what better way to enjoy it than with the only other people who knew him better than he knew himself? He followed Raya, chuckling and bantering with his old family as she led him out the front flap and into the night.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“So…as far as girls’ nights go, I guess this isn’t the _weirdest_ thing we’ve done.”

Stephanie rocked back and forth on her heels as she watched her sister work. A quick drive into the city—plus a few impromptu karaoke sessions with the radio—had brought them here, to the Diamond District. A.K.A:  the least likely place Steph would have picked to go patrolling this time of night.

“I mean,” she continued, stepping forward. “Club Penguin?” The thug in Barbara’s grip let out another wheeze after she planted a fist in his face. He slumped to the floor in a heap that Batgirl stepped over daintily. All around them lay a plethora of similar heaps. Unconscious thugs wearing dapper suits and ties, and taken down like a line of shiny black and white dominoes. Draped over the railing, scattered across the carpet—they were _everywhere._ It was a mess, but since she wasn’t one of them, Stephanie wasn’t about to complain.

Batwoman clawed a lock of hair out of her face with a huff, and turned to Batgirl, eyes glinting dangerously. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“Well, _yee-ah,_ but I’m just wondering _,”_ Stephanie threw up her hands in a half-shrug, half-wave. In monotone, she asked, “What’s the point?”

Barbara’s breathing was still heavy, chest rising and falling with every labored inhale and exhale. With a sharp bark of laughter, she pointed at a heavy wooden door just down the hall and said, “The point is in there, BG. Shall we?”

It took both of them to kick down the door, boots thudding against the wood in a deafening crash. (Barbara could’ve managed on her own, but Steph appreciated the inclusion.) The door slammed against the wooden panels of the floor, and both men inside practically jumped right out of their tacky suits. The fatter of the pair almost fell out of his chair as they walked in, and the stringy one took a few hurried steps back.

“You _again?”_ Beanpole demanded in a hiss. He clapped his hands over his nose, but Batgirl still recognized Edward Nygma when she saw him.

“Get out!” Fatso bellowed, pointing a finger at the gaping hole that used to be a door. The hand was bandaged heavily, and Steph could spot the red leaking through—a significant amount, which meant the injury must have been severe.

“Don’t think so,” Barbara breezed, fixing her cold, white gaze on Cobblepot. Then she swiveled towards the Riddler, who yelped, as if her eyes burned him. Stephanie could only watch as she strode forward and grabbed the man by the lapels, jerking him roughly as she hissed into his face, “We’re going to have some more fun tonight, Eddie. Be good, I’ll let you keep your tongue.”

They dragged him from the room, kicking and cursing, and Batgirl shot her older sister a wide-eyed glance.

Barbara only nodded as they pulled Nygma into one of the other rooms, dumping him unceremoniously onto the rug. Then, after a quick nonverbal prompt, Steph latched the door behind them, sliding a series of bolts into place—the room must’ve been some sort of meeting place for less-than-legitimate transactions—and turned back to the center.

Batwoman was standing over the prone form of the Riddler, who was doing his best to shakily pull himself upright. With a wheeze, he managed to get on his elbows, before Barbara planted a boot between his shoulder blades.

“Batgirl and I are going to play a little game with you tonight, Nygma,” she snapped. All authority and cold indifference. It didn’t faze Steph—she was used to seeing the colder side her siblings put on display for the baddies, and Babs _always_ played ‘bad cop’—but she couldn’t help but notice the way Barbara’s jaw was set. It was so stiff, it would probably crack under the slightest pressure. “Here are the rules. You say nothing except what I ask you to. You don’t make any sudden moves. You behave yourself, and we’ll let you step out tonight with all of your bones intact. But if not _—”_

Barbara raised her boot. There was a familiar _shink_ sound, and Stephanie could see the glint of sharp metal points on the bottom of the sole. During winter patrols, the little metal cleats helped them scale buildings and give chase even over the iciest of surfaces. But when used for interrogation—like this, Steph supposed—they hurt like a son of a &*^$#. Sure enough, Batwoman stomped on Riddler’s back, and the man let out a mewling shriek.

“If not,” Barbara continued gently. Almost _too_ gently, “Then you’ll _definitely_ feel it in the morning.”

Stephanie stalked over, cape swishing anxiously against her boots. She kept her face hard, indifferent, to hide the undertone of nervousness that was lurking beneath the surface. On the drive over, Barbara had been uncharacteristically…well, _giddy_ didn’t seem like the right word, but it was close. Steph could tell she was angry, eager to prove some sort of point. She knew her sister well enough to know that much, at least. But even she couldn’t tell what Barbara had in store for them tonight.

“O-oh-kay,” Nygma wheezed, and Barbara smiled.

“Perfect. First things first,” she said, “hit us with a riddle.”

There was a pregnant pause that suffocated the room.

Steph’s eyebrows rose so high up her head, that they might have gone past her hairline if it weren’t for her cowl. Even Riddler’s breathing hitched, uncertain and shaky. It was like he’d expected torture, and had instead been asked to sing and dance. Judging by the pull of his mouth and the width of his eyes, Batgirl wagered a guess that he wasn’t exactly delighted by the prospect.

“W-what?” he huffed.

“Do I need to ask again?” Barbara raised her boot, cleats gleaming. They hadn’t been _quite_ enough to pierce the man’s thick suit coat, but Batgirl didn’t think the material would stop the spikes a second time. “Because, I’d _love_ to—”

“No! No, _fine.”_ Riddler raised a shaky hand. Swallowed. Closed his eyes in thought, then hissed, “You can see me in water, but I never get wet. What am I?”

“Reflection,” both women moaned simultaneously. For a brief moment, they locked eyes and shared an amused smile, but Barbara turned back to the villain on the floor with a sneer.

“Please, Eddie,” she groaned, “Actually _try_ to stump us, how about?”

He nodded, head bobbing like one of those Hawaiian dancer figures Steph wanted to get for the Batmobile’s dash. (Bruce had said no, Babs said no, and Dick said ‘maybe’.) His Adam’s apple bobbed, too, and he opened his mouth to say,

“A woman was sitting in her hotel room when there was a sudden knock at the door. She opened the door to see a man whom she had never seen before.” Riddler grunted, shifting under the weight of Batwoman’s boot. “He s-said ‘Oh I'm sorry, I’ve made a mistake, I thought this was my room.’ He then went down the corridor past the stairs and into the elevator. The woman went back into her room and phoned security. W-what made the woman so suspicious of the man?”

Silence. An approving smirk curled at Batwoman’s mouth. And she, to Steph’s surprise, turned to Batgirl.

“Well?” Barbara prompted.

Stephanie frowned, blinking rapidly. “Uh, you sure? It’s kinda obvious.”

Barbara’s look told her that she knew, but her silence told her to continue. So, Steph wet her lips, and said, “Well, first, he knocked on the door. You don’t knock on your own door.”

Riddler and Batwoman were both nodding, but Batgirl wasn’t done.

“Also, he went into the elevator. People sometimes slip up within a few doors of their hotel room, and _sometimes_ mistake the floor, either one up, or one down. But he went into the elevator, suggesting that he’d been off by two floors or more, meaning that if he _had_ made that mistake, he would’ve taken the stairs. But since he _didn’t,_ he probably wasn’t really mistaken about the room.” She shrugged, then paused.

One of Barbara’s eyebrows was raised high; Steph could tell by the way her mask fit over her face.

“Good job, Batgirl,” she said, with a note of approval that stroked Steph’s ego unexpectedly. Then, she turned to Riddler and said, “Another.”

“What 4-letter word can be written forward, backward, or upside down, and can still be read from left to right?”

“Noon,” Batgirl said, not missing a beat.

“Another,” Batwoman prompted. “But let’s try something harder.”

There was a beat, as the man on the floor considered. Steph could see his tongue working at the roof of his mouth, the bead of sweat that trickled past his ragged, greasy hairline. Even the hastily stitched wound over the bridge of his nose was leaking—likely due to his elevated heartrate.

 “Guess the next two pairs in this sequence,” Riddler wheezed, “SO, ND, JF, MA…”

Stephanie looked to Barbara. Saw the frown twisting her lips as she concentrated, lost in thought.

But Steph already had the answer.

“MJ, and JA,” she said with a shrug. “You paired up the first letters of the months, but started with September-October. Nice try, though.”

Barbara whirled on Steph with wide eyes, before her face lit up with a grin.

Then the next one: “If it takes 3 people to dig a hole, how many does it take to dig half a hole?”

Steph’s lips quirked at the question, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s a _trick_ question, Riddle-man. You can’t dig _half_ of a hole. A hole is a hole, regardless of the size.”

“Oh my, my, my. It looks like the blondie’s a Brainiac,” Riddler sneered. Then cried out as Barbara planted the cleats into his back. This time, Steph saw blood. Still, he continued, “An undercover police officer needs to… _hk…_ infiltrate an illegal gambling club, but does _not_ know the password required for the entrance to the building. The day before, he p-plants a microphone in the door knob and listens to the recorded conversation. He listens to a man stroll up and knock on the door. The doorman says, "twelve" and the m-man replies, "six" and he’s… _nn…_ let in. A second man arrives and the doorman says "six" and the man replies, "three" and is let in. The police officer is confident now that he knows the password for admittance. So, he walks up to the door. The doorman says "ten" so he replies, "five". A gun appears through a slot in the door and the police officer is asked to leave.” Nygma shifted, trying to press himself into the floorboards and away from Batwoman’s boot.  “W-why? What should he have said?”

Barbara looked at Stephanie, waiting. Judging by her posture and expression, she was stumped. Batgirl wasn’t sure why—wasn’t it obvious?—but she licked her lips and managed to say,

“Well, the idiot should’ve guessed that the password was actually _three,_ and not five.” She shrugged, and watched Barbara’s eyes light up with sudden understanding. “Since the gambling club’s password is based off the number of letters in the number. Six letters in ‘twelve’, three in ‘six’, and three in ‘ten’. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Batwoman echoed with humor.

She turned to Nygma. “Alright, then. One more.”

The villain wheezed. Shifted. Then, slowly, “You are the ruler of a m-medieval empire and you are about to have a celebration…” He paused, eyes closed as he thought. “The celebration is the most important party you have ever hosted. You have one thousand bottles of wine you were planning to open for the party, but you find out that one of them is poisoned. The poison exhibits no symptoms until death. Death occurs within ten to twenty hours after consuming even the most minute amount of poison. You have just under 24 hours to determine which single bottle is poisoned. You also h-have a handful of prisoners about to be executed, and it would mar your celebration to have anyone else killed. So. Tell me, Blonde Wonder. What is the smallest number of prisoners you must have to drink from the bottles to be absolutely _sure_ to find the poisoned bottle within 24 hours?”

Stephanie already had the answer. But she turned to Barbara, waving a hand.

“You go ahead,” she said.

“What? But—”

“Please? I just wanna hear what you got, first.”

Barbara bit her lip, but nodded carefully, contemplatively. It was hard to see through the white eyes of her mask, but she could tell her sister’s eyes had rolled up to the ceiling as she thought. The only sound in the room was the slight laboring wheezes coming from the Riddler’s nose as he breathed, and the creak of gears turning in Batwoman’s head.

Finally, she lowered her chin, and turned to Batgirl, then Riddler. “Logistically? You’d need ten prisoners. With ten people there are 1024 unique combinations, so you could test up to 1024 bottles of wine. First, you’d need to label the bottles with binary digits. Then, you’d have each of the ten prisoners take a small sip from about 500 bottles. Small sips, because they’d leave more wine for guests, but also to avoid death by alcohol poisoning. As long as you give each prisoner about a milliliter from each bottle, they’ll only consume the equivalent of about one bottle of wine each.” Batwoman shrugged, sending Batgirl an apologetic glance (though Steph didn’t see any reason for her to be sorry). “Each prisoner will have at least a fifty percent chance of living. If you do the math…” She trailed off, shrugging. “There’s more, but the number’s ten.”

Riddler looked up from the floor, jaw slack. At least before his mouth curled into a sneer. “Be still, my beating, beating heart. If only I had more time to pick that big beautiful brain of yours, Miss P— _auhghhh!”_

Barbara ground her heel into the soft part of the man’s back, teeth bared and eyes ablaze. She turned to Steph and said, “What about you? Same thing?”

The math mumbo-jumbo that Barbara had just spurted out made sense…kind of. If she’d had a piece of paper and a pen to work it out, Steph might’ve gotten the same thing. She couldn’t do it all in her head, like the others could, but she was usually pretty good at solving this type of problem when she had a visual aid in front of her.

Not that it would help in this case.

She leaned back, rocking on her heels again, and managed a loose smile. “Well, that’s… _solid_ math, Batlady. But there’s a simpler answer: just _don’t_ serve the wine.”

Barbara’s eyes widened with clear confusion. On the ground, Riddler spluttered, “No! No, that’s not an option! You _have_ to—”

“No,” Steph insisted, “You don’t. I mean, sure, you probably spent a lot of money on all those drinks, and what’s a fancy party without wine? But, here’s the thing—why risk it?” She spread her feet, waved a hand. “Even if you _know_ there’s a poison bottle—and you don’t, really, ‘cause it was never specified how you found out—and you go to the trouble of testing it, then, like Batwoman said, at least ten people die. But if you _don’t_ test it, then somebody else dies. Just…explain the situation to the guests, and I can pretty much guarantee that nobody’s gonna throw a fit over not getting their beverages for the night. Serve sparkling cider or brandy or something instead. If you can afford a thousand bottles of _wine,_ for pete’s sake, you can buy something else! But _don’t_ risk people’s lives over something as stupid as a drink.”

Barbara reared back. Riddler’s jaw dropped.

“Because, I mean, really,” Steph concluded, “That’s not a riddle. It’s an ethical question, which everyone knows can have multiple solutions... And…that’s…my answer.”

She trailed off, eyes widening in realization as she glanced over at Barbara. Her sister’s face was lit up like a beacon of pride, and that beaming smile never went away, even as she planted her foot even harder into the Riddler’s back. “We really appreciate the help, Eddie. As a token of my gratitude, I’m going to give you a five-minute head-start before we call in the cops.”

Nygma’s jaw dropped. “But—!”

“Batgirl, start the timer.”

With a wicked grin, and a wink, Stephanie pulled up the holographic stopwatch on her gauntlet’s computer. The seconds started to tick down, and with every passing _beep,_ Riddler’s face lost more and more color. He scrambled to his feet the second Batwoman removed her boot, and skidded towards the door.

 _“Oswald!”_ he shrieked, sliding on the wood floor. “ _Oswald!”_

They could hear him scampering down the hall. The sound was like the one Titus made when he was chasing something across the polished floorboards—nails skidding, and body sliding. Both women exchanged a glance, then burst into peals of laughter.

“You—“ Steph gasped. “You think we should call them in anyway?”

Barbara pursed her lips. Held up her own gauntlet. “Already did,” she whispered, before cracking up again.

But their peals of laughter were interrupted by a piercing shriek. It wailed through the window and set Stephanie’s nerves singing. Both women whirled towards the sound, glancing out through the glass and saw a thug racing out of a jewelry store, and through the crowded pedestrians below. In one hand, he was clutching a bulging sack. In the other, he grasped a gun.

Batgirl let out a whistle. “Well, well, well,” she deadpanned. “How much more cliché _do_ ya get?”

Batwoman shot her a thin smirk, then threw up the window sash and leapt out. Steph followed quickly, letting her grapple puff out of her gauntlet. She swung down, following her sister’s flapping cape, and stuck her feet out, increasing her speed. Batgirl sailed past Babs, and shot her a salute. Then released, flipped, felt the grapple retract with a _schnik_ , and rolled to the ground flawlessly.

She took off running, and felt Barbara join her on the right.

“ _Perfect_ execution,” her sister praised, panting as she swung her arms.

Steph huffed as they rounded a corner. “T’was nothing!”

“Your landing—hh—could use a little work…”

“Hey, I’ll have you know that _I_ landed with the grace of an Emu!”

“Ha!” Barbara squeezed past two ladies walking their schnauzers with a hasty apology. Steph had to leap over one of the yappy canines, almost catching her boot in the bedazzled leash. “Do you even know what an Emu is?”

“Yeah, they’re those Australian birds that sing in the trees? There’s a song about it?”

Barbara flipped into a handstand, launching off the ground, and over a set of street performers, who were lying on the ground painted the color of concrete. Stephanie stomped between their legs, under their arms, and felt like she was doing one of those tire race thingies that Bruce always used to run her through during training.

“Sorry!” she gasped, when she stepped on one of their hands.

“Mike,” she heard one of the performers chide as she raced past, “ _You_ are a casualty of gentrification! Casualties of gentrification don’t say ‘Ow!’ They suffer in silence!”

“ _Gosh,_ Mike,” another groaned.

Barbara twisted past a newsstand and barked out a laugh. She turned to glance back at Batgirl over her shoulder, mouth twisting mischievously. “ _You’re_ thinking  of a kookaburra!”

Steph cleared a fire hydrant, then pounded the pavement after her sister. “The _& *%# _kinda name is _kookaburra!?”_

She was sure that the good people of Gotham expected to hear a lot of crazy things on the streets, especially at this time of night, but judging by the slack-jawed expressions all around, _that_ wasn’t one. Barbara cackled. It was a harried, overly loud sound that got lost in the sound of traffic and car horns as their perp dove into the road.

“Emus are these huge, fluffy birds!” she shouted. “Which explains why you landed like one!”

A hand shot out, slamming on the hood of a taxi cab, and she slid easily over to the other side. Steph just leaped into the air, feet pounding the hood with a metallic thump, and flipped off onto the next vehicle. Car hopping was a dangerous sport, but a necessary one, it often turned out. She hit the pavement with a smack, then launched over the next. _Smack, thump, smack th-thump._

Their boots battered the ground beneath them as they chased the man down a side-street. They were close, now. Steph could hear his ragged breathing from her position, accompanied by the ambience of Gotham, and punctuated by Batwoman’s measured huffs of breath. Now, she could see his sweat, beaded on the back of his neck. The tightness of his shoulders. The flurried way he moved, desperate to escape.

“Hands in the air, punk, or we’ll put you down hard!” Batgirl barked.

“Heh,” Barbara chuffed softly at her side, a smile twisting up. “ _Punk.”_

The man spun on his heel, still moving, and they caught a flash of the whites of his eyes, the glint of his teeth. And then without pause, he dove through a door. Steph glanced lightning-fast up at the sign, saw that it was a dance studio. The kind that offered night classes.

Batwoman didn’t hesitate to barge in, Batgirl right on her heels.

The screams of the dancers, all slicked-up hair buns and sleek leotards, pierced the air like a needle as they scattered. Prey animals scampering away at the sight of the hunter. The man himself staggered into the center of the room. His arm shot out, and he snagged a young girl by the throat, pulling his prize to him as she let out a strangled gasping shriek. Her back to his chest, he pressed the muzzle of his firearm into the coils of her thick dark updo.

Batwoman and Batgirl squared up.

“Stay right there!” the man screamed. He was a hunter clutching his prey, but cowering before the apex predators, who circled slowly. Waiting for the chance to lunge. Steph could see it in the whites of his eyes—he knew he was cornered—and it only made him that much more unpredictable.

“I don’t think so.” Barbara’s voice rumbled in her throat, and Steph saw the eerily calm downward tilt to her lips. A cold frown. Calculating.

The man tensed, squeezing the girl as he dragged a quick inhale through his nose. The gun shook. “I _will_ kill her. _Back off!”_

Their boots danced across the polished floor. Sliding, stalking, circling. Steph could see the twirling swishes of their caps in the mirrors, the shimmering lines of their pointed cowls as their reflections dragged from one panel to the next.

“You kill her,” Batgirl said, trying to match her sister’s lowing tone. “And your life’s over. Do you hear me?”

He did. She could hear it in his breathing. In the way his pupils shrank.

“Gonna kill me?” he wheezed. The girl in his arms squeezed her eyes shut in a pained wince, teeth bared. He tugged her around to face Stephanie, and showed her the girl’s desperate expression, flashing like a warning sign.

“No—”

“’Cause I’ll take her with!” His fingers shifted on the gun, and it was a movement Steph recognized. No joke. No posturing. They’d gone past the point of hesitation. When you cornered an animal, they either cowered or snapped. And this man was about to lash out.

She raised her palms, still swirling around him, footsteps a bare whisper on the ground. “Hey,” she soothed. “No one is killing anyone tonight, okay? If you hurt that girl, you’ll end up in the state pen for the rest of your life. That’s all I meant.”

“Is that what you want?” Batwoman asked him. The way she circled was more vulture-like than Batgirl’s sweeping movements. Her arms hung ready at her sides, eyes narrowed to slits. “To go away for life? The girl is innocent and _isn’t_ going to save you. Let her go, or else you _will_ regret it.”

Steph could feel the intensity of the words in her _bones._ She hazarded a glance across the room to her sister, and saw the brief flash of a fist clenched and then unclenched at Barbara’s side. A signal. _I’ll hold his attention, and you hit from behind._

Which wasn’t going to work. The angle of the gun—

 _Do it, Batgirl,_ Barbara’s narrowed eyes told her.

Stephanie opened her mouth, but there was no way to reply. Her movements slowed. Barbara’s voice jilted above the ringing in her ears.

“I understand that men like you are short-sighted,” she snarled through her teeth, red cap flashing like a matador’s as she moved her shoulders back. “But are you really _that_ stupid?”

“Shut up!” The hand holding the gun shook, and the girl let out a whimpering squeal.

“Typical.” Barbara’s sneer was venomous, her movements as fluid as poison. “You think I haven’t seen it a million times before? All grandstanding, all _show._ But you all fail to see past your ‘big moment’ with the hostage and the gun, or the knife, or the bomb, or the acid. You kill your victim, but then what? You have no leverage. You go down either way.”

 _Go_ now _Batgirl,_ the piercing gaze Barbara shot her growled.

But Steph couldn’t move. Couldn’t go for the gun, couldn’t go for the head or the back. Any move she made now would make that weapon go off. She could see that as clearly as she could see the golden insignia in her stiff reflection.

So, why couldn’t Batwoman?

“Typical _man.”_ Her sister’s knees bent as she slipped into a crouch, still sidestepping her way over the floor. “You just don’t know when to _quit,_ do you? It was game-over the minute you set off those alarms.”

 _“I said, shut up!”_ the man screeched. His arm jerked up. The bang was deafening. The sound clapped against Stephanie’s chest. She staggered, collapsed to the floor. Screamed.

_“No!”_

She opened her eyes, and saw the man’s heaving chest, his slack jaw, his arm pointed straight out. Across the room, Barbara stood frozen stiff. Her chest didn’t move, her body didn’t shake. She seemed made out of pale porcelain, with the color all drained out. She blinked once. Then twice. And then, Stephanie noticed the hole in the mirror. The spiderwebbed circle of jagged cracks around it.

Barbara turned, watched herself in the wreckage. She was a thousand faces staring back, wide-eyed and gaping. Her heart seemed to start beating again, because she turned away, looked straight at Stephanie, and clenched and unclenched her fist. One more chance.

“I don’t know which is worse,” Batwoman snapped, pivoting on her heel so that she once again faced the man in the middle of the room. “Your aim, _or_ your IQ. What the #$%% was that supposed to accomplish?”

“Like you said. I go down either way.” His thumb went for the hammer. It was now or never.

Stephanie lunged forward.

But the man whirled suddenly. Too quickly.

And when Batgirl looked up, she was looking down the barrel of the gun. It clicked and she froze. So did Barbara.

“But if I go, you &!^&#3$ go too!”

“ _Batgirl!”_

_BANG._

Steph hit the floor hard, ears ringing. Something had hit her chest with the force of a freight train, and the back of her head smacked against the floor so hard her brains scrambled like a pan of eggs. The high, chirring buzz in her ears made her eyes blur in and out of focus. In and out. _In and out_. There was a shadow on her chest, crushing her down, down, down.

But just as Stephanie opened her mouth to groan, the shadow disappeared. A dark shape against the blinding fluorescent lights of the above. There, then vanished, along with the weight on her chest.

There was a distant scream. The sound was far away, but definitely male. She could hear bones crunching, and a few more bangs as a gun went off somewhere. A groan scraped past her lips as she turned on her side, world jilting.

There were hands on her shoulders, now. Her vision cleared just enough to see Barbara’s face above hers.

 _“Batgirl!”_ Barbara shouted above the ringing buzz. _“Batgirl, can you hear me?”_

Steph blinked. Felt Barbara’s lips brush against the side of her cowl. Right next to her ear.

_“Stephanie Brown, can you hear me? Are you okay?”_

Steph nodded dully. Her hand crept up to her chest-plate, gloved fingers scraping and searching for the slick of moisture. For some kind of painful epicenter.

She found nothing.

The buzz began to die out as Barbara helped her to sit up, one hand on her back and another on her shoulder. Steph blinked harder, clearing her bleary eyes. She glanced at the center of the room, and saw that the man lay in a crumpled heap, bloody and battered. The girl he’d held hostage was scooting away, whimpering. And standing over it all was a figure all in black. The dark shape. The shadow.

Steph swallowed hard and sat up completely, frowning in the stranger’s direction. She wore a mask that made her face a featureless, blank black canvas, and when she turned, Steph gazed at the spot where the eyes should have been, and saw nothing. And yet, in that nothing, there was definitely _something,_ and it was watching her carefully, like a hawk watches the mouse before the dive.

“Batgirl,” Barbara sighed the word heavily, like it was some kind of miracle. She and Steph both shakily got to their feet, though Batgirl never tore her eyes away from the dark stranger.

“Who are you?” she demanded, shaking off Barbara’s steadying hands. The adrenaline was still singing through her veins, making her limbs shake and her fingers tingle. But she stalked forward anyway.

The stranger didn’t answer, just tipped their head up slightly to look at her as she approached. Steph guessed they were a girl, based off height and build alone, and she was just a smidge shorter than Stephanie’s five-foot, four inches. But still, she seemed tiny, like a little black pixie.

“Answer me,” Steph snapped. Her nerves were still on edge from the gunshot. She’d been shot before, and it wasn’t something she’d like to relive. _Ever._

The girl could only stare up at her silently. Then, she glanced over at Barbara, ignoring Batgirl completely.

Her hand came up, and Stephanie _tensed._

But it only fluttered to the side halfheartedly before falling to the girl’s hip. A wave. Small and simple.

Batwoman frowned, stepping closer. She approached carefully, as one would a strange, growling dog with a suspicious lack of tags. But through her narrowed eyes, Steph caught a small flicker of recognition, even through her mask’s white eye-screens.

“You,” Barbara mumbled vaguely. “We’ve…met before. Right?”

In reply, the girl reached up. Grasped her cowl in one gloved fist, and pulled it from her head. Black hair shimmered in the bright studio lights, falling down the girl’s shoulder in a silky braid that reached to her waist. Her soft brown eyes watched them sadly. Carefully.

Barbara gasped, a soft sound that pulled at the air.

The girl was beautiful, in a quiet kind of way. Like a small puff of dandelion seeds on the wind, or looking at a sunset through an icy glass of Coca-Cola. She looked like a lazy summer evening felt, soft and faded. Innocent and serene.

Steph felt her heart flutter unexpectedly, then frowned.

“I’m sorry,” she snapped. “But you didn’t answer my question. _Who are you?”_

Dandelion girl blinked up at her slowly. Then raised a hand. It waved into shapes that Steph didn’t recognize, and couldn’t even begin to decipher. She frowned again, opening her mouth to speak. But Barbara cut her off with one breathy statement.

“I know her,” she said. “Her name’s Cassandra.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

His head felt like bubbles…veins felt like sunshine…

Raya tugged him along, and he could feel his legs shuffling through space as if it were liquid. Something thick, like ink—or sludge. He could hear her laugh, bright and jingling, and it made his heart buzz with warmth. Dick Grayson hadn’t realized he could be such a lightweight, but everything about tonight was getting him drunk.

They dashed through the cold air, wind nipping at their noses and cheeks and carding through their hair with icy fingers. The cops had disappeared. The crowds had thinned. And when they rounded the corner to the place where the trailers had all been set up, Dick couldn’t say no as she led him to hers. They plodded up the little rickety steps, side-stepping potted plants and other various lawn ornaments. When your home was on the road, you did your best to make it feel that way. And sometimes, the best way to do that was with a garden gnome or three.

The door squeaked on its hinges as they threw it open, and as they stepped into the cramped space, Dick felt nostalgia wrap him up in a warm blanket. It stilled the buzz in his body by a little bit, letting him have the presence of mind to look around. Feel the familiar closeness of the walls. Smell the evocative scent of incense and microwave food. The rug below his feet was plush and inviting, the sofa against one wall even more so. He could feel his knees bouncing below him, ready to give out. All he needed was somewhere to land…

Raya’s hand was on his cheek now. Her eyes were soft. _So_ soft. As she smiled at him, he could feel his heart fluttering in his chest. It was too fast, like a hummingbird’s, but he didn’t care. All he could do was grin right back.

“Do you recognize this place?” she asked him softly, blinking.

He tilted his head. Gazed over the trailer’s interior with a critical eye, but nothing came to mind. But then, his mind felt like a handful of cotton balls at the moment, so maybe that wasn’t saying much.

“No,” he decided. “Don’ recognize it.”

“Hmm.” Her smile was thin as she grasped his hand. Led him to one of the corners, like she was guiding a hesitant child. There was something etched out onto the wallpaper. Small, scrawly, and shaky. A cluster of letters with different thickness, different shapes. Permanent marker, possibly, though it was hard to tell for sure.

Raya’s finger pointed. Dick followed it to the messy black script, and squinted. He could make out a few pairs of letters. Initials.

**_JG_ **

**_MG_ **

**_RV_ **

**_RG_ **

“That’s us,” Raya whispered gently. “We did that after a show one night, remember? Your parents told us all to go to bed, but we didn’t listen, and kept hiding in different trailers. Then Johnny stole one of your dad’s markers and we all put our names up.”

He smiled. Reached out and traced a thumb over the small letters, one by one. He remembered, now. Running with stifled laughter from door to door, begging with whoever answered it to hide them for a few minutes, before they got bored and ran to the next. They wound up back home at this one, and he could still hear the others’ soft giggling.  Could still see his mom’s face when she saw the graffiti on her wallpaper—

His finger froze over the letter _G_. “This was my family’s trailer.”

He straightened, and glanced over to Raya. Her eyes were teary, all of a sudden, and she let out a short puff of a laugh. It was an almost mournful sound. “Yeah. Yeah it was.”

Her fingers reached out to stroke the edge of a doorway. It led into one of the two bedrooms— _his_ old bedroom.

“After the…after the accident, no one wanted it.” Her eyes flicked up towards the ceiling, and he followed her gaze. There were sunny patches of color dappling overhead that caught the attention like beacons of light. When he was younger, he’d helped his mother paint stars there in thick yellow paint.

 _“Everyone’s home looks the same, Dick,”_ she’d told him, eyes glittering as she passed him a stubby paintbrush. _“Let’s brighten ours up a little, mm?”_

It took them hours. They were covered in splotches of yellow, and they laughed as they worked, and took jabs at each other, painting skin instead of ceiling. Sword fights with paintbrushes that left gaping, dripping streaks of canary color. John Grayson came home to a pair of giggling, paint spattered Flying Graysons, and joined in on the fun.

Underneath the rug at their feet, there was probably a few spatters left.

“But this place,” Raya continued, this time in Romani, words whisper-soft and lilting. “This place has always been a home to me. And…home is something you protect, isn’t it?”

Dick was still staring up at the stars overhead. There were so many. How had the two of them managed to paint them all so quickly? “Yeah,” he breathed.

“Even if…” She bit her lip. Shut her eyes. “No matter what it takes. You protect your home. Your family.”

“Uh-hmm.”

“The people you love.”

He nodded, head bobbing listlessly. His eyelids felt like iron weights, just waiting to drop down. One hand reached out to steady himself against the wall, and he could feel Raya’s fingers twine over his. He swallowed hard, mouth dry, but heard her whisper,

“Even at the expense of…”

Her voice cut off with a snap, and he swung his head over. Looked at her wide, tear-filled eyes. Dick wasn’t sure why she was crying, but he felt something stabbing at his chest anyway, because he wanted it to stop. He wanted her to feel okay. They were in a happy place. Surrounded by so many perfect little memories. How could she possibly be upset?

Her breath leaked out of her in a shaky hiss. But then she looked up at him through her lashes, mouth pulled into a straight line. “I tried it the other way,” she whispered frantically. “I need you to know that. Do you believe me?”

His head was rolling on his shoulders. Dick felt floating…floaty… He almost swallowed his tongue. Her words were treading water in his brain, not fully sinking in. But he tried another nod.

“Please,” she whimpered. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Y-ya.”

Raya dragged in a breath. There was something final about the displacement of the air. Something…resolved? She reached out with a hand, cupping his face, before her hand slid to the back of his neck, grasping at the ends of his hair. And she set her lips on his. He felt them like a jolt of fire, at least at first. But it dimmed, becoming something softer. More…intense. Dick felt something burning behind his sternum, and his hands crept to her waist. Pulling her in. Wanting more. _Needing_ it.

Like he was suddenly dying of thirst, his body _craved_ hers like it was a brimming glass of ice water. She melted into him, mouth falling open to let his tongue inside. He could taste her, and she tasted like Rosé…

“Hmm,” she moaned. Pulling at him. Dragging him.

He sighed, stumbling after her.

They lurched into his childhood bedroom, barely parting lips to shut the door with a click.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Cassandra,” Barbara gasped again. The tone of her voice betrayed her shock. Cassandra had made it more than clear that she wouldn’t be showing her face in Gotham…and yet, here she stood. Still as a dark column, stiff as a rod. Barbara’s eyes searched the smaller girl’s face for any sort of hint as she asked, “What are you doing here?”

She made certain that she signed in PSL as she spoke. Tried to make her face as expressive as she could, and loosened her muscles to let her body do the same. Anything she could do to make her words as clear to Cassandra as possible.

The girl blinked up at her slowly, mouth twisted into a sad little frown. Barbara struggled to read the tilt of her shoulders, the pull of her brows, the way she tipped her chin. She may not have been as fluent as Cassandra when it came to body language, but she did her best.

Essentially, Cassandra’s tone of posture conveyed one thing.

_‘I’m here to warn you.’_

“Warn…” Barbara reared back. Her hands flew. “How come?”

On her right, Steph spluttered, holding up a hand. “Wait, wait, wait—are you _talking_ to her?”

“Kind of?” Barbara shot her a sidelong glance, and noticed her sister’s bugged-out eyes and gaping mouth. Stephanie had been through a lot tonight, but this was just one more thing they’d have to tackle before all was said and done. She turned back to the small assassin girl, just in time to catch the gist of a reply.

_‘You must leave Gotham. Tonight.’_

“Excuse me?”

 _‘I came here with someone…dangerous. Our task is to…’_ Cassandra shrugged one shoulder, grimacing. ‘ _Take you. And this is something I do not want to do. So you must leave. Is there anywhere you can go?’_

“Anywhere I can…? Wait. Someone else… is it Shiva?” Barbara asked carefully. “Did Ra’s send you?”

Cassandra shuffled her feet. _‘Not exactly…but in a way, yes. And…no. Not Shiva.’_

The girl’s chin dipped in a sheepish bob. Her braid shifted on her shoulder, and Barbara caught the glint of metal—a flash of gold woven into her hair. It matched the faint lines and decals on her costume. At her sides were twin sheaths for ornate daggers, and their handles were the same burnished gold as the wire in her braid. Cassandra’s garb was traditional League of Assassins regalia; she _was_ here on a mission.

Barbara didn’t need to ask who the girl’s companion was. Because Cassandra raised one hand, and began spelling out the letters in PSL. One by one, and with every passing sign, Barbara’s heard clenched tighter, and tighter, and _tighter._

On the last, it stopped altogether.

“Deathstroke,” she whispered in a horrified hiss.

“ _Deathstroke?”_ Stephanie yelped. “What about Deathstroke? What are you talking about?”

Cassandra nodded.

“Okay. Oh- _kay.”_ Steph threw up both of her hands and stepped in between the other two girls, glancing between them as if trying to pick her way through their strange conversation. “I feel like I’m missing something kinda important here. _You—”_ She jabbed a finger at Cassandra with narrowed eyes. “—can’t talk? Is she deaf? Are you deaf?” To get that point across, she signed it again in ASL—which of course, Cassandra didn’t understand.

“She’s not deaf,” Barbara supplied.

Stephanie’s finger pivoted, stabbing Barbara in the chest. “Cool, so next question? _How the #$%% do you know that?_ Can you _understand her?_ Are you guys, like, psychically linked or something? Is this a Vulcan mind-meld kinda schtick?”

“I can…kind of get the gist of what she means based on body language.” Barbara shrugged, taking a step back to escape Stephanie’s jabbing digit. “But it’s not exact. Anything else, we just use PSL.”

“Which is?”

“Persian Sign Language, Steph, which you’d _know_ if you’d paid attention during training—”

“Oh, wow, Babs, d’you really think _now’s_ the time to talk about—”

“Look, I’m not trying to argue, I just—”

“—tell me what’s going on! I only—”

Cassandra threw up a hand, and both of them fell into silence, eyes wide as they watched her spell out another name.

_‘S-T-E-P-H-A-N-I-E?’_

Barbara nodded, raised her hands. “Yeah. She’s the one I told you about. My sister.”

“Oh, great, so you’ve been talking about me.” Steph grumbled. “You gonna teach me the secret handshake, or am I just gonna have to watch that from the sidelines, too?”

“Steph,” Barbara sighed.

But Cassandra’s head cocked curiously, a small furrow appearing between her eyes.

_‘You said…you had family here. Right?’_

Barbara nodded. “That’s right.”

_‘Then you must leave. D-E-A-T-H-S-T-R-O-K-E came here for you. And he will not hesitate to kill anyone who interferes.’_

Barbara bit her lip, dared a sidelong glance towards Batgirl, who was scowling through narrowed, suspicious eyes. Then, keeping silent, she signed quickly to Cassandra.

_‘This is about the O-W-L-S, isn’t it?’_

_‘I’m afraid so.’_

_‘R-A-S is working with them?’_

_‘I don’t know the details behind the arrangement…but yes.’_

_‘I have a plan.’_

_‘Good. Then I hope you act on it quickly.’_ Her eyes darted to the side, jaw clenching stiffly. _‘If anyone knew I was here…’_

The implication was more than clear. Barbara frowned, then said, aloud, “Cassandra… _Cass._ You should stay here, with us. We can protect you from him, and the League.”

“What,” Steph said flatly.

Cassandra flinched back a little. Shook her head emphatically. _‘No. It isn’t safe.’_ She turned on her heel. ‘ _I have to go—’_

She stopped as Barbara’s hand wrapped around her wrist like a vise. She knew that the assassin could snap her arm like a dry twig if she wanted to, and she probably _would,_ if Barbara was too insistent on keeping her anywhere.

But still, she said, “You have a home here, Cass. If you ever need anything from us…come to Wayne Manor.”

“ _Babs!”_ Batgirl gasped.

Cassandra’s soft brown eyes went wide, and they betrayed more emotion than any spoken word ever would. The girl was visibly touched, mouth falling open slightly, some silent question on her tongue that she didn’t know how to vocalize. Then, she bit her lip. Surged forward.

And wrapped both Bats in a large embrace.

Stephanie squawked at the unexpected contact, going stiff. But as the hug went on, she relaxed slightly, looking to Barbara with more than a little confusion, as she brought her arms up, and wrapped them around the smaller girl. Barbara laid her cheek on top of the tiny assassin’s head. Ran a hand between her shoulder blades.

She hadn’t known Cassandra long. But it was long enough to make her a sister, she decided. At least, if it was what the other girl wanted.

When they pulled away, Stephanie swallowed, bowed her head shyly, and held out a hand to the other girl. It hovered between them awkwardly.

“I’m sorry,” Batgirl said sheepishly. “You seem pretty okay, though, so…let’s start over? I’m Stephanie. Your name’s Cassandra. Nice to meet you?”

Cassandra looked down at the hand. Then up at Stephanie. Then back down. She reached out, and poked her palm curiously, raising a pointed eyebrow at Barbara.

Barbara smiled. “She doesn’t understand what you’re saying, Steph. You’re talking too…fast. But she says to tell you she likes the color you’re wearing.”

“Oh, a fan of purple, are we?” Stephanie’s eyebrows shot up under the cowl. “Huh. Good ‘nuff for me, then, I guess. Are we keeping her, or no?”

Cassandra shot one more meaningful look Barbara’s way, and the message was crystal clear.

_‘Act soon. Get out of Gotham. And be safe.’_

Then she slipped her mask back over her head, coiling her braid neatly under the edge, and turned on her heel.

“Thanks!” Steph managed, cupping a hand around her mouth. “For saving my life!”

Cassandra turned her head briefly.

And then, without a sound, or a sign that she’d moved, the small girl disappeared completely.

Both Batwoman and Batgirl blinked in surprise, turning to each other with twin frowns that did more than enough to convey their confusion. Stephanie’s eyes narrowed, and she said,

“You’ve got a lot of secrets goin’ on, don’t you, Boss-lady?”

Barbara frowned.

The plans she’d formulated with Calvin and Dina weren’t supposed to take effect for another week or three. She almost had all of her research together, had almost all of her preparations out of the way.

But Deathstroke was a factor that she hadn’t been counting on. A blind-siding wrench in an already rickety plan. The mercenary’s reputation preceded him like a blood-soaked banner. He was famous for his skill, his fighting prowess, his strategy, and most especially his perfect track-record. If Ra’s and the Owls had sent him after _her,_ then Cassandra was right—she had to get out of Gotham before things got bloody.

Something beeped inside of her belt, and she paused, glancing down.

Her phone. Third pocket on the right. She pulled it out and glanced down at the screen.

 **GORDON –** The results are back. Stop by and pick them up asap.

“Steph,” she told her sister, eyes never tearing themselves away from the message. Her heart shivered like static. “We need to make a quick stop.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Tim Drake had an ever-growing list of certainties—things he was absolutely _sure_ of.

Topping the list was this: Bruce Wayne was alive.

But that had been true from the moment they lowered his coffin into the ground. Tim had been there watching while the undertakers worked, long after his siblings had left the graveside. It had made a sound as it reached the bottom that was…different. Tim, unfortunately, knew exactly what a casket sounded like as it was buried. He’d buried his mother. His father. Steph. Their caskets had had bodies.

Bruce’s casket had sounded _hollow._

But in a moment of uncertainty, he had hesitated. Why pry open the lid in front of random strangers? Why dig up the grave just to prove a point? And what if he was wrong? Hadn’t they all been through enough, already? Why _literally_ dig it all back up again? What would that accomplish beyond extra therapy sessions for everyone?

But still, he _knew._

Second on the list was Einstein’s theory of relativity. Then the Pythagorean theorem. And the fact that if one compiled all of the iron in a healthy adult human body and melted it down, you could make a single nail.

It was a compilation made up of nickel-knowledge, obvious constants, and odd facts. Things that helped Tim to ground himself in any given situation where a little ‘grounding’ was required. When one worked with aliens, magic, immortal Amazons, and technology that defied all scientific explanation…sometimes it could be overwhelming. If it ever became too much, Tim could always close his eyes and mentally recite the list. _You don’t know how the #$%% New Genesis tech works, but at least you’ve always got ‘e=mc2’._

There was another thing he was certain of, though, and it was this:

Barbara Delphi was not nearly as ‘ _fine’_ as she kept claiming to be.

But, Babs had fled the Cave in a hurry, and the offer to cheer Steph up was definitely an excuse. Tim didn’t doubt her concern for Batgirl; Steph got down on herself all the time. It was something he’d never really been able to help her with, and he was glad that she had the support she needed, now.

But, still, Barbara was clearly anxious to keep avoiding a conversation about whatever was bothering her. So Tim chose to focus on two specific items on the list that he _could_ confront at this moment.

One being that the BatComputer had been severely damaged, and needed fixing.

The other: that Dick Grayson had been dead…and Tim hadn’t even known.

He snagged one of his gauntlets from his uniform’s compartment, and pulled the USB cable from the spot below the heel of his hand. He plugged it into the port on the desktop, and pulled up the screen of his wrist computer to run a few quick diagnostics. Data streamed across his line of sight—none of it helpful.

Dick had been shot. (Tim had managed to wrangle that much out of Jason before he escaped back down to the Cave to escape Movie Night.) He’d probably even been on the other side of that wall in the basement when it happened, and he hadn’t heard a thing. But Barbara _had_ been there—had probably seen everything in gory detail.

Tim didn’t want to picture her bent over Dick’s body—reaching that firm resolution that would lead her to Ra’s Al Ghul.

He tapped in a few commands, and tipped his chin up to stare at the BatComputer’s screen. They’d need to replace the monitor for sure, but maybe he could get at least _something_ to light back up again?

 _Ugh,_ it was stupid. The circumstances, the decision, _all_ of it. Going to Ra’s meant putting the ball in his court. Tim knew for a fact that the immortal assassin never did anyone favors out of the goodness of his heart—not without some sort of collateral. Not without gaining something back. Barbara had been desperate; Ra’s had most _definitely_ taken advantage of that.

Tim shuddered, unwilling to think about what kind of deal they might have struck.

The old man had a habit of becoming…fixated…on certain people. Back before Damian, when Tim had fought by Bruce’s side under the Robin mantle, the dynamic duo had squared off against the Demon’s Head many times. Tim wasn’t sure when he began to notice the way that the old man’s eyes would linger on him during their fights. The way that his lips would curl upwards in a thin, knowing smirk. The way that Bruce would step between them, or subtly try to remove or interrupt Ra’s’ attention from his younger partner.

It gave Tim a feeling that was like insects burrowing around under his skin. And he could feel it now, prickling at his arms and raising goosebumps underneath the sleeves of his jacket. An itch he couldn’t scratch, and just one more thing he couldn’t fix.

With a soft grunt of frustration, he ripped the USB cable from the port, and swept the chair aside with one hand. It rolled away, wheels whishing softly against the floor. Tim crouched, and stuck his head under the desk, where Barbara had been burrowing around earlier.

It was a mess. An absolutely melted, eviscerated _mess._

He reached out with a finger towards a piece of scorched circuitry with a wince. Hackers, in his experience, could get in, swipe information, wipe hard drives, and install spyware or keylogging software to do the work for them. But this was another level entirely. Whoever had done this had managed to not _only_ make it past the security protocols that Tim, Barbara, _and_ Bruce had all installed…but they must have activated some sort of self-destructive programming in the BatComputer’s system. One that Bruce himself had probably written in early on as a safeguard against intrusion. Or maybe even a failsafe if his ‘other life’ was brought out into the public spotlight. Whatever the case, it had roasted the entire system from the inside out.

So, all in all? Tim’s diagnosis was this: Total loss. They were going to have to replace everything. Maybe even build the whole thing up again from scratch.

His head was spinning. All that information…

_Gone._

He had some things on his laptop. Barbara had others on hers. But no other place had all the data, all the files, that the main computer did. Tim knew it was for security reasons—in the event of theft or hacking, no other party could get ahold of _all_ the Bats’ information. Many had tried, and all had failed.

Because the BatComputer should have been nigh well _impossible_ to breach.

And yet, someone had sneaked past its defenses. They’d likely pillaged whatever data they desired, and then torched everything else to cover their tracks.

Tim let out a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. _Perfect._

When he opened his eyes to give the damage another once-over, they settled instead on something resting by his knee. It was small and square. Pale enough that it seemed to glow in the darkness under the desk. He reached out to brush it aside with his fingers, and felt paper.

It was folded over. He lifted it with a hand, and smoothed open the flaps, squinting to read it in the dim light.

He couldn’t make anything out.

So, Tim unfolded himself from the tiny space, and grasped for the leg of the rolling chair. He’d no sooner settled himself into it when his eyes suddenly focused, and allowed the scrawled ink letters to jump into clarity.

 ** _Barbara_** _,_ said the header. Tim frowned. Barbara must have dropped it…maybe left the flap on one of her belt compartments open? Whatever the case, however she had lost it, it was still hers, and that didn’t exactly give Tim the right to pry. But still…

He continued.

**_I’m sure you’ve already read the other note from my partner, so you know about the whole time-travel situation._ **

Tim raised a single eyebrow. Time-travel…? He wracked his brain, trying to remember something like that happening. He remembered going back in time with the others during the League’s summit, but after that…?

Wait. There was a protocol on Booster Gold’s robot. Something that would’ve _made_ him forget.

**_And you probably don’t remember very much. And that’s really kind of why I’m writing you this note. I know I’m not supposed to be doing this. It could mess up the timeline or whatever. I know the risks. But this is too important of an opportunity to miss. So. Here goes:_ **

**_The only thing you need to know is this: In my timeline, your brother Tim Drake becomes the Joker._ **

Wait— _what?_

Tim read and reread the line five or six times before it sunk in, and he could practically _feel_ the blood in his veins ice over. The insects returned, crawling and skittering through his nervous system as he continued.

**_No one really knows how it happened. I ask you about it once, and you say that as far as you know, Tim goes missing one day when you’re all younger. Kidnapped by the original Joker, and tortured for months. When you find him he’s…pretty messed up. You all put him through therapy, and you think it helps. For years, it seems like it does. But then one day, after getting married and starting a family of his own even, he just…I don’t know how else to put it, but he snaps. _ **

**_Your brother becomes one of the most prolific serial killers in Gotham’s history, Barbara. Thousands are dead because of him. Members of our family are dead because of him. His daughter Minerva—_ **

Tim’s heart inflated like a helium balloon. ‘ _I have a little girl someday?’_ he thought wistfully. He could feel his heartrate stutter as the possibility lit up in his mind—someone would actually give him the time of day, maybe settle down and have a kid with him. He’d have a _family…_ a little girl…named Minerva… It was kind of a mouthful, but maybe he could call her something shorter…like Minnie…

**_—is killed when he beats her to death with a crowbar._ **

The balloon popped.

_‘I…I kill my little girl someday…’_

**_Drake has made it his mission to wipe every member of our family off the face of the planet—himself included. And he isn’t afraid to take as many innocents down with us as he can._ **

Tim would _never_ hurt his family. Whoever had written this letter must be wrong. _So_ wrong. If he had a wife and child someday, he’d die before he let anything happen to them. He knew he’d die before he’d ever let anything happen to the others. This…this couldn’t be right…

**_That’s why I’m writing you this letter. I went back in time to stop Joker from turning Drake, but something went wrong with the robot’s programming, and I wound up here. But even though_ I _couldn’t, I know_ you _can stop him. You’re probably the only one who can._**

**_I don’t know what this information is going to do. I don’t know how it’s going to affect my timeline. But the way I see it, if I do nothing, then me and the others aren’t going back home. We’re going back to a bloodbath. I’ll have to see the rest of my family die, and know that there’s nothing I can do to stop it._ **

**_That’s why I’m counting on you. Stop the Joker, however you can. However you have to. Save Tim Drake. _ **

**_Please don’t let him become a monster._ **

**_And for what it’s worth, I can’t wait to meet you someday._ **

**_—T.M.W._ **

**_P.S. Just three more things: 1. Talons really hate the cold. 2. You’re right about Joker—every last detail. And finally, 3. You can trust Cassandra Cain with your life._ **

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Don’t think I haven’t caught on,” Batgirl told her sullenly. “Because I _totally_ have.”

Stephanie’s arms were locked in a vise across her chest, and her scowl was heated enough to melt the foggy glass of the Commissioner’s office in front of them. Barbara supposed her little sister had a right to be angry; Batwoman had dropped the ball and almost gotten Batgirl shot. If Cassandra hadn’t shown up at the last possible millisecond, then they’d be visiting the city morgue instead.

But, since both of them were still alive and well, they stood side by side in the GCPD precinct, just outside Jim Gordon’s office. He was in a meeting at the moment, though it was impossible to tell who with through the frosted window. The only thing Barbara _could_ see were the uniform black lines and swirls of the name:

**James Gordon**

**Commissioner**

“Mm?” she hummed, tilting her head towards her sister.

Stephanie’s voice was hushed against wandering police officers, but Barbara heard it loud and clear. “The reason you brought me out tonight.”

She couldn’t deny the relief she felt at that; Steph wasn’t angry about her carelessness. But it was still best to tread lightly here.

“Which would be…?”

Stephanie waved her hand as she spoke. “You want me to think I’m smart. The whole thing with Riddler? Just a way to ‘prove’ it to me.” A soft huff burst out of her mouth. Her chin dipped. “But…it’s not true, okay?”

Barbara started. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s _not true.”_ Steph’s jaw worked, and her eyes rolled up to the ceiling. “Look, at school? I’m a C student. Sometimes, I even get D’s. Or F’s. _You_ all think I’m faking it to ‘stay under the radar’ or whatever, but I’m _not.”_

Barbara’s brow furrowed beneath the mask. “Batgirl—”

“I mean, take a look at my grades, but also take a good look at how I am on patrol. Like, Ti—um, Red Robin,” she amended quickly as an officer blew past. Her recovery was instant, though, as she continued, “He can hack a supercomputer in three seconds flat. So can you. I’ve seen the way you can all hack security feeds and guest lists, and data stores on missions. But me? Let’s just be honest, Boss-lady, you hand me a USB and I can’t even plug it in right!”

Batwoman matched Batgirl’s posture and pose, arms sliding into place just below her insignia. “To be fair, none of us can ever get it in right the first time.”

“ _So_ not the point!”

“Then by all means,” Barbara nodded. “continue ranting.”

“You all just…” She pressed her knuckles together under her nose, squinting. “Make these _connections._ Who dunnit? Where? When? How? Well, guess what? I’m not exactly Sherlock Holmes when it comes to that either!”

“Batwoman, Batgirl,” Montoya said with a nod as clipped as her voice as she hurried past.

“Detective,” Barbara shot back pleasantly with a tilt to her chin. “How’s Ms. Kane?”

The woman paused, heels skidding slightly on the tile, but managed a shaky smile. “She’s…doing well. I think you might have made strides in convincing her that…perhaps ‘not all of you Bats are so bad, after all’.” There was a knowing smirk tacked onto the end of that statement, and Barbara suspected that there was some sort of story behind it.

Batwoman smiled. “Tell her ‘hi’ from me. And good luck out there today—we both know you’re one of the best cops here.”

Renee Montoya looked oddly touched by the gesture. Apparently, one was much more open to small talk and compliments when pulling the graveyard shift. She thanked Batwoman and hurried off, papers flapping in her arms, and heels clicking against the tile floor.

Steph watched her leave, then resumed with a short bark of laughter. “You know what Dad always used to tell me? He used to say that I would’ve made a good sidekick if I wasn’t so &*##^?% stupid. Used to quiz me every night when he got home from ‘work’ and if I got his questions wrong, he’d…”

She trailed off, shrugging one shoulder defensively.

“Are you finished?” Barbara asked gently.

Steph nodded.

“Good. Because here’s what I think.” She settled her shoulders a little more firmly against the wall. “First of all, BG, you need to get him out of your head.”

“I—”

“I’m not talking about stepping away. You already did that. You beat him, and you managed to escape the life he had planned out for you. But what you _haven’t_ done is gotten rid of his voice in your head.” Barbara nibbled the inside of her cheek, then continued. “Fathers are…complicated. They have expectations. _Rules_. And, sometimes, Batgirl, we internalize those things until they sink into us. Maybe, a little too deeply.”

Steph hunched her shoulders. Managed a glance up towards her sister. “I’ve—I’ve never asked, but…what was yours like?”

Barbara frowned. “I…”

In her mind’s eye, she could still see his face. Tousled strawberry blond hair, thinning out on top. Hazel eyes that were wrinkled at the edges, especially when he smiled. He didn’t smile often, but when he did, it was warm and soft, like a fluffy blanket right out of the dryer. But his face was a blurry photograph from another time…detached from her life as it was now. Her biological father was a subject that stayed locked in the far reaches of her mind. Where he was safe.

“I don’t know how to tell you,” Barbara replied quietly. “He died when I was little.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. But, nice try, changing the subject. We’re not talking about him, right now, Steph. We’re talking about Arthur Brown. Specifically, all the things he’s said to you through the years, and all the ways he’s cut you down.” Barbara eyed a pair of sergeants stepping through the hall, and waited for them to pass, boots clipping against the floor with a reassuring rhythm. “I want you to promise me something, okay?”

“Um…okay?”

“Start today. Every time you hear him in your head—and trust me, you _will_ recognize it—tune it out. Replace it. You can be free of him, if you want to be. I want _you_ to want that.” She turned her head to look at her little sister and her tight frown. Her voice came out as a whisper as she said, “Because you are _so smart,_ Stephanie Brown. So incredibly quick-witted and intelligent.”

Batgirl’s eyes squeezed shut. “I’m _not—”_

“No.” Barbara’s hand came up. Cupped Steph’s shoulder firmly. “You are. You should have seen your face when you answered Nygma’s riddles. You just _knew,_ and your whole face lit up with this…this _confidence._ And you should have heard yourself, too. You sounded so sure, and you were right. You came up with answers that I know _I_ wouldn’t have thought of.”

Steph threw off Barbara’s hand with a bark of derisive laughter. “Yeah, BW. I’m _great_ at trivia and brain teasers! You know what else can do that? _Google!”_

“I don’t know,” Barbara mused flatly. “I’ve never had the time to open a search engine on my gauntlet when I’m caught in a deathtrap. I can’t exactly say ‘Hey, Siri’ when I’m bound, blindfolded, and hanging from a rope above a vat of acid. And I sure as #$%% can’t fire off the answer as quickly as you can. Remember a few months ago, when you and Damian were caught in that escape room with the Team?”

“Yeah,” Steph said, clearly remembering the mission in the Brain’s compound gone awry. “But—”

“You got them out of there in _three minutes_. It would’ve taken the rest of us at least five times that, but you saw right through all the puzzles and clues, and went right for the heart of the mechanism to open the door.”

In the end, it had been a simple combination lock. The metas and Robin had been so transfixed by the distractions and challenges, that they hadn’t even thought to check the door. Stephanie had picked the lock while Traci Thirteen and Kid Flash were still trying to answer the question ‘what walks on four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three in the evening?’

“That doesn’t count—”

“Batgirl.” Barbara cut her off. “It absolutely counts. You _see_ things more clearly than the rest of us do. If there’s a trick, if there’s some kind of twist, you’re the first to catch it. If that’s not intelligence, then I don’t have a clue what is.”

Steph floundered, eyelids fluttering and mouth gaping. But Barbara wasn’t finished.

“Like, that last question. I was too focused on the math. But your answer made so much more sense.” Batwoman smiled, and nudged her sister’s shoulder. “As for ‘having no expectations’, I think we both know that’s not true.”

“Oh, yeah? And how’s that?”

“Because I never would’ve picked a mental slouch to take up _my_ mantle.” She smirked at Stephanie’s expression. “And I can see big things ahead for you, little sis. You’re going to go so far.”

Batgirl’s jaw and shoulders both slackened.

The Commissioner’s door opened with a click, and swung inwards. They could catch the back end of a stiff conversation between Gordon, and the man emerging from his office, cane first, and when she heard the man’s voice, Barbara’s lips twisted downwards.

“—my regards to your lovely wife. I’ll be—"

He turned, and their eyes met briefly.

Batwoman’s frown deepened.

Abraham Vanaver was tall and imposing in the already small hallway, and his stiff posture only served to make him appear even larger. The sound of his grip tightening on the head of his cane was starkly audible. As was the sound of Barbara’s arms crossing a little tighter over her ribcage. When he caught sight of the two Bat women, his mouth curled into a sneer, and he looked down the stiff bridge of his beak-like nose at them.

“Ah,” he clipped. “Gordon, I believe your building has a rodent problem. I’d be happy to contact an exterminator for you, if need be.”

The Commissioner appeared in the doorway, eyes narrowed with a question, but then he saw the Bats, too, and he wisely stayed silent.

Batgirl, on the other hand, didn’t.

“Funny,” she snipped. “I was _just_ about to say the same thing.”

Vanaver stiffened, and Gordon pressed himself a little further out of the room, possibly to keep the two from flying at each other if the need arose. Judging by the looks on Abraham’s and Stephanie’s faces, he wasn’t too far off base.

“Batgirl,” Barbara chided. “Don’t be rude. The man’s already got one foot in the grave—another jab like that might send him over the edge.”

Steph’s head cocked towards Batwoman, a surprised grin painting her lips. Even Gordon couldn’t keep the confounded delight off his face, though he, at least, did his best to play it off with a cough and a shrug.

“Impudent,” Vanaver muttered with one raised eyebrow, like it was a disappointing observation, but pasted on a thin smile as he turned to Gordon. “Do keep in mind what we discussed, yes? Allies are wonderful things to have in trying times such as these.”

The Commissioner’s frown was deep, suddenly sobered. “I’ll think it over,” he replied flatly.

“Mm, yes, I do hope you will.” Vanaver made to exit, stepping lightly across the tile. But his shoulder brushed dangerously close to Batwoman’s, and he whispered, “I look forward to seeing you again, my dear. Preferably upon your knees.”

Barbara turned after him, lips pulled into a snarl. “I beg your pardon?”

Louder, he replied, “There are people in this city that you do not want to disappoint, Commissioner. _Bat_ woman.”

He swept away, the flaps of his overcoat swishing through the crowd of officers as he disappeared. A few tense moments later, they could hear the sound of a door opening and shutting, though it may have been just a coincidence in timing.

“Man,” Steph muttered, “I’m _so_ glad school’s on break, otherwise I’d have to see that guy’s loser kid walking around…”

Barbara hushed her, but Gordon already knew their identities, anyway. He gave a noncommittal shrug, and waved them into his office with a weary sigh.

“The results crossed my desk an hour ago,” Gordon told them quietly, latching the door as the two women seated themselves in the pair of plush chairs in front of his large desk. Batwoman could feel herself settle into the cushion, but it did nothing to settle her nerves.

The Commissioner crossed the room, and sank into his own seat with a soft wheeze. The leather chair creaked and crackled below him, a sigh just as weary as its owner’s. Gordon then pulled open a drawer in his desk, and tossed the beige file folder onto the desk with a small _slap._ It slid towards Batwoman, and she scooped it up with a quick glance at the man across the desk for permission. Gordon nodded, and she opened it.

“I had Bullock and Montoya guard the lab while they were running the tests,” the Commissioner said, steepling his fingers as he leaned forward, leaning against the desk as if for support. “No one got in or out, and that file never left Montoya’s hands. You’re actually the first person outside of that room to see it. _I_ don’t even know what it says.”

They watched Barbara with interest as she carefully thumbed through the pages of the report. Her eyes skimmed over the graphs and data charts, dashed through the introductory paragraphs and abstract, and then she started in on the bulk of the results.

_Sample displays molecular anomalies…human, but with further evidence to the contrary…reacts negatively to cold temperature…do not store at temperatures below thirty degrees…sample began to grow within hours of collection…’self-healing’ and cellular replication occurred after two hours and continued at an exponential rate with each following hour…_

She’d suspected some of it. Most of it, she’d heard from Calvin Rose, a Talon himself, who probably knew a thing or two about his own ‘molecular anomalies’. She thumbed through the rest of the report, skipping past data she could go back through at a later time.

All she really cared about at the moment were the DNA analysis results.

“Sooo, Commish,” Stephanie managed, in an attempt to break the stiff silence. “What were you and Vanaver talking about? Did he invite you to his country club?”

Gordon’s mouth quirked a little at that, but his eyes maintained their steely coldness. It was the look he got whenever he’d been tasked with a new secret, a new burden, a new worry. Over the tips of his fingers, he muttered, “We were discussing politics. He thinks it would be a great idea if I… _joined_ his country club.”

Barbara paused, eyebrow raised as her eyes flicked up to the Commissioner. “Oh? Joining a club like that takes a lot of…commitment, I’m sure. I assume you told him you’d think about it?”

“I told him as much, yes, but…” His eyes darted around the room, briefly, and Barbara was suddenly very aware of the fact that he’d been keeping his voice lowered and hushed for the duration of their interaction.

“Batgirl,” she said pleasantly. “It’s very rude to stick gum under people’s desks.”

Stephanie shot her a look that very clearly said, _‘what the &*#%?’ _so Barbara cleared her throat meaningfully, eyes dropping. Batgirl followed her gaze, then her eyes widened with understanding.

“ _Oh._ Right. Sorry.” Her fingers swiped under the edge of the desk, and, sure enough, stuck on something that had been placed there. “Just habit, honestly. Lemme take care of it.” She twisted her fingers, and pulled a small object out into the open. It was small, circular, and bronze in color, with a dim red light that told them they were being recorded. “You wouldn’t happen to have a trashcan in here, would you, Commish?”

“Right here,” Gordon replied shakily, eyes wide as he took in the small bug. He lifted a trashcan with a rustle from his side of the desk.

Stephanie crushed the bug easily in her fist. It made a weak fizzling sound as it died, and Batgirl dropped the corpse daintily into the bag.

“The Court,” Barbara decided, going back to her reading. “I assume Vanaver came to recruit you?”

“He did.” Gordon nodded carefully. “Said that if I told anyone else, they’d go after Sarah.”

“Speak not a whispered word,” Batwoman said darkly, flipping the page. “Or they’ll send a Talon for your head.”

“That’s…that’s _exactly_ what he said. Actually.”

“Your wife’ll be fine,” Stephanie promised with a bob of her head.

“Yes.” Barbara squinted at the page she was reading, scanning for what she was looking for. She hoped that the small skin sample she’d managed to collect had been enough to run a complete set of tests—it _should_ have been enough—and yet, the fear of not knowing, or maybe _never_ knowing, nagged at her. There was something about that Talon that didn’t sit right, and it wasn’t just his crude advances and attempts on her life.

Barbara’s tone turned guarded as she said, carefully, “There’s a plan in place to put a stop to the Court, don’t worry.”

Stephanie shot her a sidelong glance that she didn’t miss, but Barbara had just seen the words _DNA ANALYSIS,_ and her attention was riveted elsewhere.

“Y-yeah...” Steph’s voice was careful and confused, but she nodded again. “We definitely do.”

“Good. You think I’d know by now to trust that you people know what you’re doing.” Gordon glanced at Batwoman, a suddenly wistful frown pulling beneath his graying mustache. “Which is better than I can say for myself. How…how _are_ you doing, Barbara?”

Her eyes flicked up at the sound of her name, and she frowned. When they were suited up, Gordon _rarely_ used anything but their codenames. She lowered the file to her lap. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“I’m told the Joker paid you a visit this afternoon?”

Barbara could _hear_ Stephanie tense up beside her. Practically felt the air freeze in her sister’s lungs. But all she could do was stare into the Commissioner’s sad eyes, and try to decipher the hidden depths behind his intense gaze. There was something hidden, there. Something guilty.

“No,” she replied tensely. “He just sent me an…’anniversary’ present.” She played with the edges of the papers in the folder distractedly, trying to keep focused. Anything to steer her mind away from her nemesis’s taunting words—the &*#% _photographs—_ “He’s early, but you’ve got to admire the dedication, I guess.”

“Babs,” Steph whispered. Almost whined.

“But I’m _fine._ Thanks for asking. _”_ Barbara refastened her eyes onto the page. Onto the words below the relevant heading, and went back to her skimming. She mumbled, “Never better.”

Gordon seemed as likely to rip his own mustache off as believe that statement, but instead of pressing the issue, he only sighed. And with that release of breath, he seemed to shrink five sizes. He seemed tiny in that moment, and his voice was even smaller as he said, “Well, that’s…that’s good. Very good. But if you ever need someone to talk to…I’m here.”

 _You and everyone else who pretends they can understand a &*#% thing, _she thought, maybe a little bitterly.

But then her eyes snagged on a name.

Barbara pushed out her chair. It slid across the floor with an earsplitting _creak_ as she shot to her feet.

“Batgirl, we need to go.”

Stephanie’s eyes widened. “What—”

“We need to go _now.”_ She turned, and stalked towards the door, file folder tucked in the crook of her elbow. “Thank you for everything, Commissioner. We’ll keep in touch.”

“Yes, but…” Gordon pushed out his own chair, standing more slowly as his fingers spread across the desk. “What does it say? Is it—”

“It’s something I should have suspected,” Batwoman clipped, casting her eyes downward. “But I’ve been…distracted. Batgirl, _now.”_

Steph stumbled out of her seat, shooting the Commissioner a few hastily mumbled apologies, and they both strode from the room, boots clacking urgently across the floor. They elbowed their way through the precinct, capes flapping and cowls bobbing through the crowd of Gotham’s finest. The officers fell silent, watching them leave, so Batgirl knew better than to speak up until they stepped out front. The chill air blasted them in the face—the only skin open to the air—and Barbara resisted the sudden violent urge to shudder.

The Batmobile was waiting at the curb.

“Babs, what is it?” Stephanie whispered as they hurried towards the vehicle.

They flipped themselves inside, and Barbara pounded the hatch button until it slid into place overhead. The car fired up with a roar, her boot slammed the gas, and they shot forward in a burst so powerful, the backs of their cowls hit the headrests with a _bang._

“Babs!” Steph demanded. “What’d it say?”

Barbara grit her teeth, spinning them into traffic. “I’m an idiot,” she told her sister.

She had to get to the circus.

She had to get to _Dick._

He was pissed at her—rightly so. And Barbara would be lying if she said that she wasn’t still a little angry with _him._ But the words in that file changed things, and it changed them _drastically._ She could no longer pretend that keeping her plans under wraps would protect him, because this…this was…

Barbara grit her teeth and spun them around a corner.

No more secrecy. No more lies.

It was time to tell him. _Everything._

 

* * *

 

 

Tim stumbled into the kitchen, coaxed forward by the buttery smell of popcorn and lured by the sounds of the TV. His entire brain was static, his senses numbed to dullness, and essentially, he was running completely on auto-pilot.

He could still see the words of the note—like they’d been seared into his retinas. He could still decipher their meaning, one by one. But when he tried to think of the sum of their parts, string them together into something more interpretable…his mind drifted back into static.

 _Don’t…don’t think about that…it can’t be true…doesn’t make sense…I was kidnapped by the Joker_ one _time…and nothing happened…except for the scar…and Bruce…but I’m okay…Black Canary told me that this doesn’t have to…that…I’m…I’m okay…just don’t think about it…_

Tim wasn’t certain about a lot of things. But he could add one more to his list:

There were some things that were better left ignored. At least until they were relevant. And this was one of them.

He found Damian in the kitchen.

Tim wandered in, legs shaking, arms jerking, nerves twitching. He was walking like a zombie, eyes flat and staring straight ahead, but his little brother didn’t seem to notice. Damian was seated at the bar, legs swinging in the air as he perched on the high stool. He was looking down at something in his lap with wide eyes and tight lips. A bowl brimming over with movie-theater-butter popcorn sat untouched on the counter nearby.

From the other room, Tim could see Jason at the TV. He was sprawled out on the couch, flipping idly through channels with a remote raised like a threatening pistol. Voices, music, and bursts of sound effects flickered and changed at lightning speeds.

 _‘But Paul! You said you’d always_ be _there for me! I—_ kkssshhh… _the blue-ringed octopus is a native to—_ kksssshhh… _call 1-800-MORTGAGE for a free—_ kkssshhh… _Lincoln March leading in the polls as the elections draw closer and closer. Gotham city officials encourage all citizens to vote in the—_ kkssshh… _switch to NEW-T to save 6 percent on life insurance—_ kkssshh… _Carnes was arrested early this morning for slaughtering her entire…_ kkssshh… _it’s never too late to put your child on the path to a bright future! For just pennies a day…_ kkssshh…’

Jason tipped his head back, hair falling out of his face. When his eyes landed on Tim, he grinned, waving his free hand in the air. “Hey, bro. Turns out, I decided you’re totally right, Braveheart’s a little much for short-stack over there. Remember that _one part?_ So we’re just surfing to see if there’s something family-friendly on.”

“At three a.m.?” Tim muttered, pulling out a stool at the bar.

“Four fifty-seven, Master Timothy,” Alfred amended, appearing out of the woodwork to place a steaming bowl of popcorn in front of Tim with a flourish. Tim dug his hand into the puffy whiteness and stuffed a handful into his mouth.

Jason gestured towards the TV, where one of the Star Wars movies was playing. “Yeah, so far, it’s a choice between New Hope, and _The Man from_ _Snowy River_. Guess which one I’m leaning towards?”

Tim wasn’t listening. He was too focused on transporting popcorn from bowl to hand, and hand to mouth. The soft, pillowy texture of the food was comforting. Having food in his mouth helped to stem the anxiety fluttering around in his mind, wings beating against the insides of his skull.

And then he caught sight of what was in Damian’s lap.

He snagged it with his free hand, ignoring the sharp _‘Hey!’_ that came from his little brother as he squinted down at it. The paper was stark white, with three smooth edges, and one jagged—the note had been ripped in half.

But it was the scritchy handwriting that Tim recognized instantly.

The note flew from his fingers like it had teeth, and he almost fell off the stool.

“ _Where did you get that?”_ he demanded, as soon as he’d choked down the popcorn.

Alfred and Jason looked up at his raised tone, and Damian stuck out his chin. Reached for the scrap of paper. “Give it back, Drake. We should—”

“ _No,”_ Tim insisted, sliding it away with one tentative finger. “We _shouldn’t!_ Where did you get it from? Tell me, now! _”_

“Whoa, Timbers,” Jason said, standing. The couch creaked as he got to his feet and stepped into the kitchen, hands raised placatingly. “What’s up?”

“What’s _up?”_ Tim shot out of his seat. Jabbed a finger at the offending slip of paper. “That’s a note from _Joker!”_

Jason’s hesitant big-brotherly smile died in an instant. He squared his shoulders and swiped up the note with one sweeping hand. Tim, Damian and Alfred watched his eyes dart from side to side, and his throat bobbed.

In a hoarse voice, Jason asked, “Dami, where did you find this?”

“It was behind the trash can.”

Jason reached down and swept the can aside. The metal screeched against the floor, and they all winced. But when their brother looked down at the supposed spot, his face drained of all color. He stooped to pick something up.

“The Joker was not in this house, boys,” Alfred assured them gently. “Miss Quinn stopped by to deliver a package to Miss Barbara while you were all out. Its contents were…unsavory, to say the least. But no one was harmed, in fact—”

Jason straightened, holding another slip of paper. In his large hand, it looked tiny. But whatever was on it had caused every bit of the color in Jason’s face to drain away. He swallowed. Hard.

“What is that?” Damian demanded, reaching for it.

Jason pulled it away so fast that they all jumped.

“It doesn’t matter,” he barked, a little too loudly. He folded the paper with one savage stroke of his fingers, and stuffed it into his pocket. “What matters now, is—”

Barbara and Stephanie burst into the room, and the boys fell silent. They watched, wide-eyed, as Barbara marched towards the stairs. Her cape flew behind her, while Stephanie lagged.

“Hey, guys,” she breathed, stepping towards the hallway.

Jason wet his lips. “Steph? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, just…” Steph shook her head, and reached up to remove her cowl. It slid off with a series of clicks and she ran a set of gloved fingers through it with a shaky sigh. “We gotta head out again. We’ll be back soon, but…yeah.”

Barbara appeared in the doorway, dressed out in civvies. To say that she looked frazzled might have been an understatement, and the way she squeezed onto the doorframe for dear life did nothing to detract from that conclusion. Her head whipped towards Steph as she said, “Change in the car, we’re leaving _now.”_

“Would you like any popcorn, Miss Barbara?” Alfred asked, a little dryly. Tim raised his eyebrows at the tone, and so did everyone else.

Except Barbara, who hurried over to wrap the butler in a quick hug. “I’m so sorry for leaving you in the panic room and taking off without saying anything.”

Alfred raised one gray eyebrow, unamused. “And yet, here you are, taking off once again.”

Barbara snagged Steph’s wrist, and was halfway out the door when she said, “Well, at least I’m saying something this time, right? Enjoy the movie boys, we’ll be back soon!”

Without another word, the girls were gone.

Jason, Tim, Damian and Alfred were left standing in the kitchen, gazing at each other with open befuddlement. Then, over the TV speakers, Han Solo’s foreboding voice spoke the words on everyone’s minds:

_“I got a bad feeling about this.”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dick’s head felt like a three-ton weight against the pillow.

All he could do was stare up at the ceiling, watching his vision swirl into focus, then out of focus. _In_ and out… _in_ and back out. The stars in this room were the glow-in-the-dark kind, relics from a simpler time—an _easier_ time—and they spun overhead like a Van Gogh painting.

He was vaguely aware of the body breathing next to him, slight inhales, and soft puffs of breath. Sound asleep—or, judging by the frequency of the breaths, only _pretending_ to be. But that wasn’t what concerned him at the moment. To be honest, he wasn’t completely sure what _did…_ only that he was lying on his back, completely naked, in what _looked_ like his childhood bedroom…

With no clue how the #$%% he got there.

Every time he tried to think about it, his train of thought scattered like a flock of startled birds.

“Babs?” he whispered into the dark. Hoping that it was her next to him. _Praying_ that it was.

His voice sounded wrong to his ears. Scratchy…blurry…the one word drawn out like a final breath.

The figure next to him rolled, jostling the mattress a little as she curled into his side. An arm draped possessively over his chest, her face nestled into his neck. The sudden weight was simultaneously comforting and discomfiting, and out of the corner of his eye, Dick saw a smudge of orangey-red, turned darker by the dim lighting. The woman…looked like Barbara. Relief flooded through him, warm, and soft, and safe, like the morning sun cresting over the horizon. She was here, in his arms, sheltered in his embrace and settled beside him in his childhood bed. They must have made up…he hadn’t really meant those horrible things he’d said to her…she must’ve forgiven him…he was glad she did…

Dick had the urge to reach up. Run his fingers through her hair. But as soon as he tried, his brain sleepily decided that movement took too much effort, and so he settled for staring up at the ceiling again, head in a dense fog that he was too weary to peer through.

But his ears were still in working order, it seemed, because through the tiny window above the bed, he could hear a soft, slightly frantic voice demanding,

“I’m looking for Dick Grayson.”

 _Weird._ The voice didn’t sound like any of the circus performers, and _definitely_ didn’t sound like a cop’s. Who else would be looking for him at—his eyes darted over to glance at the dusty clockface hung on the wall—a quarter past five in the morning?

“ _Da._ Figures.” Another voice. Lower. Gruffer. Dick might’ve recognized it, if he cared a little more about ‘thinking’ at the moment. Searching his mind for a face to match the rough tone took too much effort. He settled on indifference, instead.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, girlie, what makes you think he wants to be found?”

Dick wasn’t sure if he wanted to be found. Who was looking for him? Why did they want to ‘find’ him? He was perfectly fine where he was, thank you very much.

“Look, mister,” a third voice—younger, and female, probably—snapped. “You can either help us out or get out of the way. Understand?”

“No audience members are allowed back here. Now go, before I call security.”

“Sir. Please. I need to speak with him _immediately._ It’s an emergency.”

“You’re the girl who caused this mess, aren’t you?” The man growled. “Reduced the poor boy to tears. Now, unless you’re here to apologize, I’m calling—”

“We are!” the younger girl piped up quickly. “We definitely are. Right, Babs?”

_Babs._

The word echoed in his ears, reverberating again and again and _again,_ until Dick’s eyes flew open wide. The girl nestled against him stiffened slightly underneath the sheets, but then relaxed, curling even more deeply into his side. She let out a soft purr, and he _knew_ that the sound didn’t belong to Barbara.

“Yes,” the real Barbara snapped, “I _am_ here to apologize…” She trailed off. Then, after a few moments, he heard her tight voice once again. “Please. Just tell us where he is.”

A slight pause. Then the man replied, “Grayson family trailer. Right over there.”

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move. And he _definitely_ couldn’t think…

“Steph, stay put. This isn’t…” Footsteps. Slow and pounding. They may as well have been pounding into his skull like a ten-pound mallet. “Never mind. I’ll fill you in later.”

He was frozen in place, every single cell in his body vibrating with dread, but unable to move a millimeter. All he could do was listen in horror to the footsteps that clattered too loudly on the stairs out front. The agonizingly raucous squeak of the door hinges.

And a tentative, nervous, small voice asking, “Dick?”

She was just outside the room. He could hear her feet padding over the rugs, could hear them pause. Then, there was a slight slide against the door as she leaned against it, just outside. Waiting.

“I know you’re mad,” he heard her say. Heard her _sigh._ There was a hesitant tremor in her voice. “You have _every_ right to be. I’m…really sorry about how things went.”

His mind was foggy, but he forced himself to action. It took every straining muscle in his body, but he pulled himself upright. The other girl slid off him with a gasp of surprise. Her hair fell over her face, but through his squinting vision, he could recognize Raya Vestri with a sudden uptake in his heartrate. She grit her teeth and reached for him, but Dick jerked away.

“And you were right. I…I’ve been keeping things from you. A lot of things.” There was a shaky exhale. “Like you said, trust is a two-way street. So…I’m here to…”

She trailed off. And Dick ignored Raya’s grasping fingers as he reached for the covers. The blanket felt like an iron curtain draped over his lower half, and he wanted it _gone._ But the effort of reaching down made his head spin violently, and he let out a soft pant of pain, eyes blearing out completely as his vision burst into whiteness.

“Just… Look. I know you’re in there, Wingnut.” Barbara’s gentle voice felt too close, pressing in against him from all sides. He clapped his hands over his ears with a groan.

One that was too loud, apparently.

“…Dick?”

He heard the knob jiggle.

Raya slid upright, the sheets shivering around her as her hand slithered up his chest. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist to pull it off, yank it away, _something—_

But then the door swung open.

Barbara stood silhouetted against the kitchen light. A dark shadow surrounded by a halo of brightness.

She was as stiff as a marble statue, still as a frozen moment in time. And he could hear her sharp intake of breath, jagged and piercing like a serrated knife.

It cut him to his core.

Because, as her eyes roved over the scene—clothes strewn across the carpet, messy sheets spilling off the mattress, and two bodies pressed close—they bulged, and brimmed with sudden pricks of moisture. The hand on the doorknob went slack, fingers sliding. The other rose to her lips, pressing against them in a fist. Dick could see the whites of her eyes, glowing in the darkness, and glistening in the light. Staring at him with horror and anger and disbelief. And for an eternity, all they could _do_ was stare at each other. Silent. Unsure.

It was a silence that carried a special kind of scream with it.

Then Raya’s voice pierced the stillness, as she brought her free hand up to coil in Dick’s hair. The gesture was possessive. Her smirk was triumphant.

“I’m sorry, do you mind?”

Barbara spun on her heel and stalked away.

“Wait!” Dick pulled himself up. Ripped himself from Raya’s grip. The mattress squealed as he lurched to his feet, stumbling for his costume. But the second he was up, flashing pain exploded behind his eyes, and he staggered, gasping. His head spun, his body swung, like his soul had come disconnected from his frame, and was flapping violently in some unfelt breeze. Dick pressed his fingers into his eyelids to stem the flow of what _must’ve_ been blood; it was hot, and wet, and so, _so_ painful.

Deciding against clothes, he ripped the sheet from the bed. Raya gasped, suddenly exposed to the cold air, but Dick couldn’t bring himself to care in the heat of the moment. He wrapped it hastily around his waist and legs and hurried out.

Something was wrong. Every step felt like he was walking over a trampoline. His muscles shuddered and shook, each and every one of them screaming at him to go horizontal as quick as possible. But his hand shot out. Caught the edge of the trailer door as it started to creak shut, and pushed it open. Were doors supposed to be so heavy?

The light was dim—morning sun just beginning to turn the sky a dusty shade of purple—but he could see Barbara’s red hair flowing in the breeze as she stomped away, coat pulled tight around her shoulders. Her steps clipped across the boardwalk. Staccato and piercing—every step a stab to his chest.

“Babs,” he croaked, stumbling down the stairs. On the last step, his left knee jiggled dangerously, and he stumbled. Only just _barely_ catching himself, before he looked up.

She’d dared a glance over her shoulder, and her eyes were filled with poison. They practically glowed with it.

“Babs,” he rasped again. Shuffled forward, fingers tightly tangled in the sheet. He reached out with his other hand.  “It’s not—”

_“Don’t.”_

It was a snarl. A whispered snap of sound through the air that made him stop short. His fingers shook in the cold air. The chill seeped under his skin, and it crept towards his heart when he saw the look on her face.

Tears were beading in Barbara’s eyes, glinting in the string lights above their heads. Her jaw was tight enough to snap. Her arms hugged over her stomach as if they were the only things keeping her together. Lower lip trembling, eyes wide and wary, she took a step away from him. Then another. Turned and started back on her course.

“You think…you think I…” he whispered to the air. But he staggered after her, reached out again, trying to grasp her hand. Through the shakiness in his head, he knew that she’d be enough to steady him. She was always—

Barbara’s hand cracked across his face.

Dick lurched violently to the side. His vision went white, legs and feet tottering below him as he reeled. One hand—the hand that had reached for her—came up to gingerly touch the spot on his cheek. The center of the sting. His heart had stopped beating altogether, and he looked up at her through wide, bleary eyes.

She was beautiful under the string lights. They caught the loose curls of her hair, edging them in gold and amber…and if they weren’t here, like this, in the aftermath of something terrible, he might’ve taken her into his arms and never let her go. But Barbara’s eyes were alight, glowing in the dark, flickering between teary blue and furious emerald, and she bared her clenched teeth. A sob ripped through them.

“Don’t _touch me!”_

Dick flailed, words failing him. Barbara shook her head, fingers clenching and unclenching at her sides. It was as if she couldn’t decide whether to hit him again—or if she was horrified that she _had._ Every shattered breath she took seemed to cause her pain, forming ghostly puffs in the air as she rolled her eyes skyward.

“Trust.” In Barbara’s mouth, the word sounded like the clipped wail of a wounded sparrow. Her fingers dragged through her hair, and the soft hiss of her voice scraped him raw. “ _Trust?_ You son of a &!^&#.”

Dick’s mouth went dry, tongue scaping at the roof of his mouth to find some kind of moisture. His fingers dug deeper into his skin as he whispered, “I didn’t—Babs, you have to _believe_ me when I say—"

“No, _you_ —you don’t _get_ to talk.” Barbara took another step back, eyeing him through a tearily narrowed gaze. She tipped her chin down, hugging her arms tighter against herself, chest heaving out a breathy, tattered scrap of a laugh. “And I have _nothing_ to say to you.”

“That’s not—”

“Fair? I _know_ it’s not _._ ” Barbara’s eyes flicked back up, unfocused. Haunted. As if she were staring at him through a haze, seeing him, but sure as #$%% not recognizing what she saw. She bit down on her lower lip, suddenly snapping into focus as her jaw shook. “But let me tell you what’s worse.”

He took another step forward, legs shivering below him. “Please. _Barbara._ You don’t unders—”

“What’s worse…” Barbara’s voice was hollow, empty. She breathed in with a rattling gasp, then back out, chest rising and falling. The sound was raw. Condemning. Two tears slipped down her cheeks as her eyes flicked back up to his, and then, like it was tearing something out of her to say it, she whispered with a shattered hiss, “Is that you may not have trusted me, Richard Grayson…but I always— _always—_ trusted _you.”_

The last word came out as a cry, a piercing sound that hit him like an arrow to the chest. He could feel the sting, sharp and searing, and it almost sent him to his knees. She could reach out and hit him again—punch him in the gut, throw him off the pier, shoot him in the chest—and it wouldn’t have hurt as much as the look she was giving him now. It would never even come close to the sound of her voice.

 “Babs? _Babs?”_

Stephanie materialized at Barbara’s side, grasping for her arm. Their little sister’s eyes roved over her tearstained face, her bared teeth, and her shaking shoulders. Barbara was managing, somehow, to keep it together, but they could both see the cracks beginning to form at the seams.

“What’s wrong?” Steph whispered, eyebrows lifted into a terrified arch. “Babs? Are you hurt? What happened?”

Barbara shook her head listlessly, head rolling on her neck, hair falling over her face. With a small rise and fall of her shoulder, she shrugged off Stephanie’s hand. Stepped away. Took another staggering gasp. Now, Dick could see her eyes glittering dangerously, and they snapped to meet his with ferocity.

She reached for something that had been tucked beneath her arm. A folder—papers peeping out the edges like crooks peeking around a corner. She brandished it like a threat, and snarled, “Here. I figured some of my $#!^ out…thought I’d share. That’s what you wanted, right?”

It hit the dust at their feet with a dull _slap._ Some of the papers flew loose, fluttering gently in a breeze that wasn’t strong enough to let them take flight.

“Hh. United front. You and me.” Barbara’s tone was bitterly passive, now. She bit her shivering lip and looked away, brow furrowed. “But, you…” she huffed. Huffed again, and it turned into a soft, tart breath of a gasp. “I don’t have anything left to say, really. Except, _thank you.”_

Stephanie froze, eyes widening. And so did Dick. Because whatever he’d expected from her—curses on his name, tearful declarations of hatred, or a pleading reminder of _everything_ —it wasn’t those two words. But somehow, they cut more deeply than anything else she could have said. At least, that’s what he thought, before the next words were out of her mouth.

“Thank you,” Barbara said, like it was a glittering revelation. He could see her eyes light up, her back straighten, her shoulders square, with the brilliance of it. Her hands burrowed into the pockets of her leather jacket. And she whispered, “The only thing that was holding me back, keeping me in _check,_ was…” Her throat bobbed. The statement seemed to die out there, swallowed down, and left unsaid. She met his eyes. “There’s nothing left, Grayson. Is there?”

Was she talking about them? Was she talking about—?

The meaning behind those words was a shadowy mystery that Dick didn’t have a prayer of solving. At least, not in time to keep her from whatever resolution she’d just made. He could see that spark in her eyes—cold and gleaming—and knew that she’d reached a decision.

“Barbara,” he cried softly, voice shattering. “Please... I would never—”

“Everyone says that, Richard—that they’ll never leave.” Barbara turned away. Shook off Stephanie’s grasping fingers and took one step in the other direction. Then, another. “But has anyone ever meant it?”

The sound of her boots on the boardwalk was like a smattering of raindrops—one or two, then more, and more, before the soft patter on the ground turned to a dull roar. She swept away, leaving him to stand in her wake, shivering and numb. Something sharp had lodged in his heart, but he knew the internal bleeding wouldn’t kill him before the pain set in.

“Dick?”

Stephanie’s soft whisper sliced through the deafening ringing in his ears. He turned his head, eyes bleary all of a sudden. She was looking up at him with open confusion, naked _shock._

“What…just happened?”

Dick’s mind was radio static, hissing and whishing in his ears, drowned out by the building whine of a single note, ringing audibly above everything else. He could still see Barbara in the distance, shoulders hunched, before she disappeared from view completely. And once she was gone, it was like a light had switched off. He could feel his jaw slacken, his heart stutter, his muscles go limp.

He staggered. Steph caught him. That was all he could determine from his surroundings.

“What happened?” Stephanie repeated into his ear.

Dick wet his lips, throat sore, head pounding like a bass drum, rhythmic and painfully loud. When he spoke, it was in a fractured whisper.

“I don’t know.” His voice cracked like thin glass. He turned his eyes on Steph desperately as he cried, “Steph, I don’t know.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mornings at the Clocktower were always peaceful. _Quiet._

It was why Dawn Granger made a habit of waking up before the sun each morning—no matter how much shut-eye she’d gotten the night before. There was something comforting about crawling out of one’s warm bed, feeling cool air on the skin, and stretching the blood back into one’s limbs. Hank always slept like the dead, his breathing slow and steady even as she felt her own heart speed up, ready for another day. As she padded barefoot out of the room every morning, she always got the same little _zing_ in her chest.

Especially when she saw the sun peeking up through the clockface.

It turned the tower’s insides a pale shade of gold. The color of butter, or daffodils, or something warm, and she could feel that warmth spread through her veins like syrup.

It was such a _shame_ it was almost winter. But snowy mornings could be nice, too, she supposed.

Dawn’s fingers curled around the balcony railing as she headed for the stairs. The Bird’s Nest was a series of levels built above a central section of the tower. One could open a bedroom door, and look out on behemoth bells and giant gears. The gears still turned, creaking and moaning in a way that you only got used to with time, but the bells had been decommissioned years ago. If you looked down, you’d see the floor, where workers used to gather to work on the Clocktower’s moving parts and little mysteries in a time before a flock of Birds had come to permanently roost. Now, it was a collection of couches and chairs and throw rugs, with a flatscreen up against one wall, and a fireplace below that. There were bookshelves and paintings, and little display cases for costumes—though almost everyone kept their work uniforms up in their rooms. Or, if they were feeling particularly trusting, in one of the off-shooting training rooms.

She stepped lightly through the domestic forest, sparing only a glance for the hub of softly humming computer equipment placed against the lower half of the clockface. It used to be that Barbara Delphi could be found here at all hours, typing away at a new project or inspecting a new angle for a case. Dawn often woke up to greet _her,_ and the two would share soft greetings, small talk, or even literary discussions and scones when Babs had reached a lull in her work.

But their Oracle had regained her wings, and flew from the nest without so much as a glance back. Now, Dawn was the only conscious soul in the tower.

The kitchen was equally deserted, and equally quiet. It was nice to be able to listen to your own heartbeat, and hear your thoughts as clear as a cut diamond. Usually, things were too loud—which made for scattered focus and poor thinking.

Dawn started a kettle of tea. Helena and Zinda— _barbarians_ that they were—always insisted on microwaving it. Zinda, because the microwave was still an enigmatic wonder when she’d grown up in the age of Victory Gardens and FDR, and Helena…because she was _Helena._

A blink of an eye later, she turned back to the clockface, steaming cup and warm saucer in hand, and sipped slowly. She focused on the temperature, the taste, the feeling of warmth that blossomed in her chest as she drank. It helped her to ground herself, getting ready for a newly chaotic day. If it was slow, everyone would be trapped together inside the tower, chattering and cooking and watching TV, blasting music and swapping patrol stories. If it were busy, there would be robberies to stop, murders to solve, and villains to battle. Either way, afternoons and evenings rarely compared to the gentle lull of the early morning.

She’d already have to deal with hungover Helena, who teetered on the edge between grumpy and downright _savage_ when she was in pain. And Dina was going to pop out of her room at any second, accompanied by her gentleman-friend, Kevin (or whatever this one’s name was). They’d share an awkwardly silent breakfast, or a brief goodbye at the door, depending on how last night went. Either way, Dawn’s peaceful morning was preciously short. Time was running out, and she was &*#% well set on enjoying it.

That train of thought had barely crossed the tracks in her mind when, of _course,_ there was a quick _tap-tap-tap_ at the door.

A weary sigh fluttered from Dawn’s mouth. It used to be that there was an elevator that led up directly into the Birds’ Nest. It was inaccessible to the public, but any of the Birds or their operatives could press a specific string of buttons, input a code, and arrive safely at the top without _waking anyone._

 _Please,_ Dawn thought weakly, _Don’t ring the doorbell._

But, sure enough…

_Bbbbrriiiiiinngg-Brrrrooonnggg_

“Nn,” Dawn whimpered, casting her eyes up to the balcony.

On cue, doors swung open all around the rings of rooms as ladies poked their heads out. Not everyone could be woken by the doorbell, but vigilante super-women are light sleepers by nature. Mari hissed out a string of death threats—Vixen was always prone to being more snake-like when just woken up—and slammed her door shut again. Beatriz and Tora emerged from their room, and hung over the railing, watching her with two sets of narrowed eyes. Fire’s gaze was cold, Ice’s was heated. Barda thundered out of her room, staff raised in warning.

“Who dares to come calling at this hour?” she boomed, looking down at Dawn as if she had the answer.

Helena’s door was, if possible, even louder. She winced, fingers pressed to her forehead, and glowered at the air with malice. “Somebody better stop that &*#% ringin’ before I stop their _life,”_ she slurred.

Dina was the last out, but she, unlike the others, was dressed.

“I’ll get it,” she proclaimed, already halfway down the stairs before Dawn could open her mouth to protest. If they just ignored the bell, wouldn’t whoever it was on the other side eventually give up and go away?

But the Black Canary swept to the door, fingers twisting around the knob, and Dove hurried over to flank her. Whoever was—

Instantly, she regretted her annoyed response.

“Barbara?” Dawn cried.

The other woman looked up, eyes puffy and bloodshot, makeup smeared over her eyes. Her hair was wind-ruffled, her clothing even more rumpled, and wore a haunted, quivering stare that Dawn hadn’t often seen outside of the poor girl’s nightmares. Barbara looked, for all the world, like a woman who’d just been hit by a speeding train.

She looked up, voice choking as she gasped, “Dawn?”

Dove folded Oracle into her arms, holding her tightly. She could feel the poor thing shaking like a leaf in her embrace. Shivering. Whimpering. Barbara buried her face into her long white-blonde hair, and Dawn shot Dina a frantic frown.

Dina’s brow was pinched. “Babs? Babs, what’s…what the #$%% _happened?”_

“’S that Babs?” Helena was marching down the stairs, one hand pressed over her left eye. She had a scowl fit to murder. “Gotta lotta nerve, showin’ up here after what she pulled last night. Whaddoes she want?”

“Helena!” Dawn chided, holding her friend closer. Dina had joined her, and they sandwiched their Oracle between them, guarding her against whatever phantom she’d come running from. Softly, she whispered into Barbara’s messy red curls, “Can you tell us what’s wrong, hon?”

“I need—” Barbara’s words were gasping chokes of air. “I need to—to stay here. ‘S that okay?”

“Of course,” Dina soothed.

“Abso- _f*****g-_ lutely not!” Helena snarled. She’d made it to the door, a stinging rebuke clamped between her clenched teeth. But then she saw Barbara, and her fire blew out immediately, giving way to open concern. “Why…why is she…?”

“Are you hurt? Tell us where…” Dina worried over Barbara, tipping her face up to inspect for cuts or bruises. Their eyes all roved over their friend’s body, checking for the telltale signs of injury, but finding none. They couldn’t make sense of it; the way her chest stuttered with every breath, the painful whine of every dry sob…

There was something broken inside. Cracked, if not shattered. Like a rib, maybe, but probably worse…

Barbara’s eyes brimmed over, and the tears streaked down her cheeks. “I…I just… _”_ she whimpered. Then, before they could stop her, sank to her knees. Her arms wrapped around her ribcage as she bent in half, a heavy sob ripping from her chest. The sound scraped at the other three women, and made the others up above stop, look, and listen.

Dina knelt next to Barbara, a hand laying gently between her shoulder blades. Her knuckles rubbed smooth circles into the tense muscle, and she shushed the girl on the floor with soothing whishes of breath.

“Shh, shh, Babes.” Dina hushed softly, and drew Barbara upright, into her arms. She let the sobbing woman lay her head against her chest, and ran a hand over her messy hair. “I’m here. Let it all out.”

“Di—Dick,” Barbara gasped. Cried. _Wailed._

“Shh. I know.” Dina’s eyes were far away, lidded and unfocused as she stroked Barbara’s hair again, and again. “Tell you what, hon. Let’s get you changed into something soft, and make you something sweet. Dawn, we still got cocoa in the pantry?”

Dawn blinked rapidly, but nodded.

“Good. See? It’s all going to be okay...” Dina’s voice was hauntingly sweet. A warm trickle of molasses, slow and rich with familiar comfort. Barbara drew in a staggering breath, digging her face into her best friend’s shoulder, shoulders shaking with renewed weeping.

“…we’ve got you, now.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've said I wasn't going to bring Cassandra to Gotham until later, but...well, you guys convinced me, and I figured it'd be a nice way to...apologize? I don't know.


	27. Good For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh....Finals are going to do me in, guys. But at least I managed to pound this one out in my final moments...
> 
> (This chapter is absolutely named for the Dear Evan Hansen song, btw.)
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

Tim never asked too many questions.

Stephanie had always been infinitesimally grateful for that. She could still remember the day they’d met across rooftops on the West Side of Gotham. He was still Robin, back then, and she was in a hastily homemade costume with a self-appointed alias: the Spoiler. After giving chase, and cornering her in a back-alley, Tim hadn’t asked much besides the obvious: “What’s your name?” and “What are you doing out here?”  By way of reply, Steph hit him in the face with a brick and made her escape. Admittedly? Not exactly the best introduction.

He tracked her down, though, and a few months into their shaky partner/friend-ship, Stephanie had a falling out with her current boyfriend, Dean. He’d found out about her relationship at ‘work’ with this ‘Alvin Draper’ guy, and had flown into a jealous rage. Steph tried to pacify Dean with the contents of her mother’s medicine cabinet, and wound up using right along with him. Three painful mornings later, she staggered down to the little pharmacy on the corner. One pregnancy test later, and she could almost see her life begin to rip apart at the seams. She called Tim in tears. Asked to meet him at Robinson park. He’d showed up in full uniform, expecting a threat or a case.

And she told him, “Timmy, I’m pregnant.”

He’d reeled. It took him a good thirty minutes to overcome the shock of that statement. But once he had, he asked, “Is it mine?”

“No. Tim, I’m _sorry…”_

He waved off her apology with a small, sympathetic smile. Then, “How can I help?”

And that was before he’d learned the details. He didn’t even have to ask, didn’t even question it. Just wanted to know how he could ease her suffering and help her get through it.

And, still, years later, Tim Drake was exactly the same. Naturally inquisitive, but smart enough to know when to keep his mouth shut and get to work.  

So, when Steph burst through the front door, practically carrying a half-naked, lethargic Dick Grayson on her back, he didn’t ask. When she shouted, “Tim, we need a drug test, _now!”,_ he didn’t second-guess it. And when Dick leaned over and vomited all over Alfred’s polished floor, Tim didn’t even question. He just shouted for Jason and Damian, and they all pitched in to help carry their older brother down to the Cave.

Now, she wandered around the infirmary, unwilling and unable to keep still, tennis shoes clapping lightly against the tile floor. Steph’s fingers dug into her arms. She looked at the exam table set into the middle of the room, where they’d laid Dick out on his back, and worried at her bottom lip. Tim was taking a blood sample with a needle-like contraption; he’d already gotten a hair sample and a quick cheek-swab.

Dick hadn’t protested, because he was out cold. But that didn’t stop Jason and Damian from firing off questions a mile a minute.

“What’s going on?” Jason’s fists clenched and unclenched between his crossed arms. From his spot by the x-ray machine, he was watching Tim’s methodic work with clear apprehension.

Steph circled the table. “Dick’s hurt.”

“Why does he need a drug test?” Damian demanded.

“He’s been roofied,” Steph snapped.

Jason’s eyes were bigger than his bark of a shout. “ _What?”_

“I don’t know what that means,” Damian sniffed. “What does that mean?”

“It means that he’s been drugged.” Tim held the vial of blood he’d taken from Dick’s inner elbow up to the light, and squinted at it critically. The color was shockingly vibrant against the rest of the room’s muted black, silver and white decoration, and Stephanie found she couldn’t take her eyes off of it either.

“How does Brown know that?”

“Just trust me, okay, Damian?” Stephanie snapped. Her voice cracked through the air like a bolt of lightning, and even the pre-teenaged focus of her impatience recoiled a little from his perch on one of the other exam tables. Jason and Tim both raised their eyebrows, but said nothing. Steph rolled her shoulders carefully, stretching out the muscles, and frowned. “I’ve seen this before—I know what I’m talking about.”

Tim resumed working, clearly unwilling to think too hard about the situation. It was his answer to everything—keep your mind on the task, not on the subject. When the going got tough, Tim’s brain got going. (Preferably, on a less painful tangent.) She couldn’t exactly blame him. Sometimes, it was easier not to think.

As Tim stepped over to the testing equipment, and placed the vial inside, the others shifted uncomfortably. And while he waited for the results, Steph could see Tim shoot wary glances in her direction. He knew this was a sensitive subject for her. He knew she was probably crawling in her own skin right now.

But she decided to take a leaf out of Tim Drake’s vigilante guide-book for once. Do or do not, there was no _think._ Not right now, at any rate.

“Let’s just make one thing clear,” she told the others, pulling to a brief stop. “When he wakes up, we hear him out, and we do _not_ blame him for anything that happened. Do you all understand?”

Jason’s jaw was working, and he rocked anxiously on his heels. “Why the #$%% would we blame him? We don’t even—"

Damian frowned. “I still don’t know w—”

“Boys,” Steph snapped, throwing up a hand. “ _Do you?”_

They clammed up, and Damian scowled, but both of them nodded.

On the table, Dick stirred.

A moan leaked out of his lips as he turned his head. His shaggy hair fell over his eyes, but Steph could still see his lids twitching underneath. Dick’s arms moved next, sliding over the shiny steel surface, and fingers grasping at empty air.

They all watched in silence, unsure whether Dick was waking up, or only dreaming.

But then he spoke. His voice was hoarser than a chain-smoker’s as he asked, “St-Steph? Are you there?”

She surged forward, twining her fingers between his to give him a reassuring squeeze. “Yeah, bro. I’m right here. How’re you feeling?”

“Nn…feel like I just got trampled by Zitka.”

Jason pushed off the x-ray machine, and carefully stepped over. He kept his footsteps quiet, as if he were stalking a skittish deer in the woods out behind the manor. Stephanie didn’t miss the helpless look of terror on her boyfriend’s face, and her mind flew back to the memory of his raspy voice telling her about his mother, and the night she’d OD’d. Her other hand came up to hold his, and Jason accepted it gratefully.

“Hey, man,” Jason’s voice squeaked a little.

Dick’s head shifted a little. “Jay?”

Jason’s throat bobbed. “Yeah?”

Damian wandered over, eyes wide and frown pulled tighter than a guitar string. His hand slid up over the edge of the table, poking hesitantly at Dick’s hand. He seemed to want to hold it, but Steph wasn’t sure if she could let her brother go quite yet—he seemed shaky enough as it was, even with her there to steady him. Dami’s voice was tiny. “Grayson, Brown says you’ve been poisoned.”

“Shh, Dami,” Stephanie whispered. “I don’t think he’s ready to—”

“’S okay. I can…” Dick tried to sit up, then hissed painfully through his teeth. Jason eased him back onto the table, jaw clenching tighter and tighter.

Dick’s eyes were exposed, now, and they twitched open. Then, screwed back shut with a violent wince.  “ _Ah_ …”

“Get those out of his face.” Steph jabbed a finger at the pair of operatory lights mounted above the table. Perfect for impromptu surgeries or examinations—very _bad_ when you had a crash headache.

Jason hurried to comply, switching them off one after the other with two distinct little clicks. Now, the room was dimmer, but at least they still had the fluorescents fifteen feet above their heads. Those probably wouldn’t feel great, either, but Steph guessed that even Dick would agree that a little light was better than working in complete darkness. At least, in this case.

Over near where Tim was standing, the machine beeped, and he moved onto the next sample.

Dick’s eyes opened again, cautiously narrowed this time. He wheezed, and asked, “Wh-what’s going on? Where…”

“The Cave,” Damian told him softly. “The infirmary. Brown found you and brought you home.”

Dick’s arm lifted, and he ran a hand up the side of his face. His eyes were haunted as he looked up at the ceiling, dancing between the lights and the tiles. “Right,” he said softly. “That’s right. I remember that.”

Steph squeezed his hand again. “What else can you remember?”

He shook his head listlessly, eyes falling shut. Then, he curled in on himself, grunting softly as he pulled his body up into a sitting position. It looked like it hurt, and Stephanie felt a twinge of sympathy, letting go of his fingers just long enough to let him settle. Then, Damian swooped in before she had the chance. She tried not to feel a little twinge of resentment towards the tiny gremlin—the kid was just as worried as she was.

Dick was hunched over, feet pulled up onto the table so that he could hug his knees close to his chest. It was an incredibly vulnerable position, but no one in the room could blame him. Steph watched him squeeze Dami’s fingers softly, as he rested one temple against his kneecap.

“I don’t…” Dick’s eyes twitched beneath his lids, mouth twisting. “I remember the ride home. I remember…before. There was a party in the Big Top. I drank with Raya, then…” He shook his head a little, exhaling shakily. “Nothing. What the #$%%?”

Steph laid a hand on his back. She hesitated to touch her brother—physical touch was not usually welcome in circumstances like these. She knew that from experience. But Dick had always been a very tactile person; touch was what grounded him, what comforted him. And right now, he could definitely use as much of both as they could give him.

“We…Babs and I…” Dick rasped, lifting his head, but only so that he could press three fingers to his forehead, grimacing. “We fought. It was…it was bad. _Then,_ the party, _then_ a huge blank, and…then we fought again.”

The last part was added in a whisper, and Dick’s breathing audibly hitched.

“After…after I woke up in Raya’s bed.”

Jason’s mouth fell open, pre-shout, but Steph hushed him with one stern glower. Damian, too, was gaping. Over by the equipment, Tim’s hand froze above one of the monitors, and he turned his head, a clear question on his face. But he knew enough to keep it to himself, for now.

On the table, Dick was shaking. “Oh. Oh, &*#. That means we—” His hand clapped over his eyes. “And _Babs_ thinks that I— Oh, _& *#._”

“Listen to me, Dick,” Steph told him softly, leaning down to be closer. “It’s not your fault.”

“But, if I hadn’t—”

“That doesn’t matter. You did nothing wrong.” Stephanie felt her heart twinge, and rubbed soft circles on his back. “ _Nothing._ And Babs’ll see that. We’ll _make_ her see that if we have to, understand?”

“And we’ll get that circus &!^*#, too,” Jason growled. The situation seemed to be sinking in, and Steph could see his hackles begin to rise.

A soft series of beeps from the machines in the corner made them all look up. Dick’s hand slid off his face, and he squinted over in Tim’s direction. The brother in question was tearing off the machine’s printout, and looking it over, carefully. A line appeared between his eyebrows that grew more and more furrowed with every passing second.

He looked up, and stepped over.

“Well. The good news is that this—” He tossed one hand in the direction of the machinery. “—is the only part of the BatComputer that’s still working. Which means that the results are back in full.”

Jason grumbled. “And the bad news? There’s always bad news when you say ‘the good news is’...”

Tim nodded, and brandished the paper. It flapped regretfully in the air as he added, voice dangerously, overly, calm. “Yeah, well, the _bad_ news is that Dick tests positive for trace amounts of GHB.”

“Which is…?”

“It’s like Rohypnol,” Steph said quietly. Her hand stilled on Dick’s back when she felt the muscles there tense considerably. Even more softly, she clarified, “It’s a date rape drug.”

The room fell silent. It was so silent, that Stephanie could hear the bats chittering outside the infirmary doors, and the soft hum of the Cave’s air filtration system. She could hear her heartbeat stuttering in her chest, and her brothers’ stunted breaths. On the table, Dick drew in a staggered inhale, and let out a soft groan of pain.

“Oh,” he whispered, voice splintering. “Okay.”

“Symptoms include nausea, short-term memory loss, vomiting, and increased se—” Tim cut off sharply, and cleared his throat. His shoulders drooped. “Um. Yeah. But Steph’s right, Dick. It wasn’t your fault. You weren’t yourself, and…I’m just sorry that we weren’t there.”

“We _should’ve_ been,” Jason growled. “Dick, I’m so sorry.”

He hesitated as he moved in, clearly unsure of how his older brother would respond. But Dick looked up, saw Jason’s outstretched arms, and surged forward. His arms wrapped around the taller man’s shoulders tightly before Jason had the chance to react. Damian joined in with a slight sniffle. Steph knew that he probably didn’t completely understand what was happening, but she was glad that he knew enough to comfort their big brother.

Steph turned to Tim, and jerked her chin towards the other side of the infirmary. He followed her closely, smart enough to keep silent until they were just out of earshot. Then, he said,

“Babs should be the one handling this.” Tim nodded over towards the huddle of bat-brothers on the other side of the room with a frown. “Where the #$%% is she?”

“&*#% if I know,” Steph grumbled, lacing her arms tight over her stomach. “She took off in the car before I had the chance to ask. Had to call for my cycle, and scare away anybody who got too close until it showed up. I mean, I get that she’s upset, but I’m with you. She should be here.”

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is how—isn’t this basically how we wound up with Damian?”

“ _$#!^.”_

“Okay. We can fix this, right? Where do we go from here?”

Steph bit the inside of her cheek. “I think we need to start by getting him some clothes. And we call Babs to explain the situation. Then…Tim, I think we need to go after the circus.”

Tim’s hand dropped. “What do you mean? Like, go after them as Waynes? Or, go after them as…?”

“As Bats. Yeah.” She spared a glance at Dick, who was still huddled in his brothers’ arms, then turned her gaze back on Tim. Carefully, she slid something out of a hole in the inner lining of her jacket. (Which Alfred had tried sewing up for her, but Steph found that it made an excellent ‘secret pocket’.) It was something she’d hastily hidden after Barbara had tearfully thrown it on the ground and stomped off.

The file.

She passed it to Tim, and let him read over the contents, rocking on her heels nervously as she waited. Steph could see his face shift, features going slack, from mild confusion, into surprise, into shock, and then into downright disbelief. His jaw dropped as he looked up at her, eyes bulging.

“No way,” he gasped.

“Yes way.” She reached forward and tapped the page in question. “This little name right here? Opens up a _whole_ new can of crap. If you ask me, this only confirms that Haly’s has been working with the Court all along. Which would _mean—”_

Tim’s fingers scrunched the papers. “They’re responsible for this.”

“Why else would his childhood friend drug him and…you know? Something feels wrong about this, Timmy, and I do mean _more than it already does.”_

He nodded vaguely. She could see the look in his eyes; he was already running the data through that calculator head of his. Comparing. Contrasting. Crunching the numbers. And whatever the end result was, he didn’t seem to like it—Steph watched every muscle in his entire body tense up considerably.

“You’re right,” he breathed. “But I think we need more information. We don’t know for sure that…anything happened. We know they drugged him—”

“—we know this _Raya_ lady drugged him. How can we be sure that the other circus members are involved? What if Raya’s just the Court’s inside-woman?”

Tim waved a finger in the air, nodding thoughtfully. “Good point. But I don’t think so. I’m just saying…there’s too many unknowns. So. Let’s call Babs and get her back here. A few of us can head back down to Amusement Mile to scope things out and turn over a few loose stones. Meanwhile, Dick…” He turned his head, brow pinching as his eyes landed on their brother’s hunched shoulders. “I think we need to run some more tests. If he’s okay with that, I mean. Then…you’re right—he needs some fresh clothes and a few days off, I’d think.”

“Right,” Steph agreed. “That’s…probably a good idea.”

But Tim was already halfway to the others. He approached slowly, carefully, then at the last moment, he hesitated. He seemed to hang on the edge, unsure of how to proceed. But then Jason looked up, and tugged him into the group hug. Stephanie bounded over, and threw herself in.

For an eternity, all they could do was hold their older brother. Comfort him in the only way they knew how. Dick didn’t cry, settling instead on a blank stare, peering at the wall of the infirmary as if he could see right through the tile and rock. It unsettled Stephanie a little bit, to look over at his expressionless eyes. But finally, after their muscles started to cramp from being held in one position for so long, the siblings broke the embrace. They pulled away, but let their hands linger on Dick’s shoulders, or in his grip.

“Dick,” Tim finally said, “I’d like to run some more tests.”

Their brother’s throat bobbed. “What…what kind of tests?”

“The more…in-depth kind.”

Dick caught on after a few seconds, and lifted his head slowly. He swallowed again, hard, then rasped, “Let Alfred do it.”

“What?”

“Alfred. I want him to do…to run the tests.” Dick shrugged, and wrapped his arms tighter across his bare chest. “You shouldn’t have to.”

Steph could understand the sentiment. The old butler had seen just about everything, before, and had helped each of them through a plethora of injuries. Serious and minor. Strange and…less-than-savory. He was practically the family doctor, at this point. (Excluding Leslie, but she was on a humanitarian trip in Ghana, so reaching her wasn’t immediately on the table.) If the tests Tim wanted to run involved what Steph suspected, then she couldn’t blame Dick in the slightest.

And neither, thank goodness, could Tim.

He nodded once as he said, “Yeah. Of course.”

“And…another thing.” Steph held up the file, ignoring the flash of warning in Tim’s eyes. She knew that what she held in her hand was a _lot._ It might actually be enough to tip Dick Grayson—who was already teetering, based on his tight frown and glassy eyes—right over the edge. But she had experience when it came to _not_ sharing vital information. #$%%, it was actually a large part of what had gotten her killed. Stephanie knew that there was a difference between withholding information from someone because they didn’t need to know—and withholding it because it would make you uncomfortable if they did know.

She figured that in this case, it would be best to let Dick decide for himself.

“What is it?” he asked her, staring at the file folder with a deepening frown.

Steph held it out for him. “Barbara got ahold of some Talon DNA, and sent it to the GCPD for analysis. These are the results.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Steph, I’m not sure this is the time for—”

“It is the time,” she interjected. “Because inside this folder is the name of the Talon who attacked Barbara, and…I’m sorry to say, big bro, but it _very much_ involves you.”

Dick’s frown deepened as he glanced from Tim to Steph, careful and contemplative. Then, he wet his lips and said, softly, “Then I need to know.”

“Dick,” Tim protested. “You’ve been through a lot in the last few hours _._ Maybe it would be better if we gave you some time to process things before—”

Dick threw up a hand. “No. I’m good. I’m ready. And…I need something else to think about. Anything else.” As he turned to Steph, a steeled set to his jaw and a warily resolved gleam in his eyes, he said, “I want you to show me. Now.”

Steph passed him the folder gently, papers sliding softly inside. All eyes drifted between the file and Dick’s expression carefully, each one of them doing their best to gauge his reaction as his gaze flickered over the tiny black print. He flipped page after page, jaw tightening and loosening anxiously. He licked his lips, bit his cheek, blinked hard.

Then he reached the one page—the only one that really mattered.

And every single muscle in his body went limp. His shoulders dropped, eyebrows rose, jaw loosened. And when his grip slackened, the file felt to the floor with a light _smack,_ papers sliding loose over the tile like a spilled deck of cards.

Dick moved, tried to get to his feet. His limbs shook—but Stephanie guessed that the drug in his system wasn’t the only thing responsible for that. He staggered, one hand flying out to catch the edge of the table with a _slam._ He drew in a shaky, staggered inhale through his teeth.

“Dick?” Jason reached out to steady his brother. “What’s up? What’d it say?”

Dick opened his mouth to reply. No sound came out but a soft wheeze.

“Grayson?”

“Steph,” Tim whispered. “We shouldn’t have—”

Dick’s voice, low and tight with unmeasurable agony, cut him off.

“Grayson,” he gasped. “The Talon’s name is John Richard Grayson.”

Jason’s jaw hit the floor. “You mean he’s—?”

“He was— _is—”_ Dick winced violently, pressing a hand over his eyes. “My cousin.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Barbara had been in more than one explosion through the years.

She’d been rigorously trained in the art of bomb diffusion so mistakes were rare—but they happened. Barbara was only human. And as such, sometimes she flipped a switch or snipped a wire just a second too late. Made some sort of slip-up, some trip in procedure. When she was lucky, her armor was enough to protect her. When she wasn’t, something often wound up burned, bruised, broken or battered. The times where her luck had run dry usually left her gasping on the ground, eyes squinted shut against the searing heat of the wreckage around her. The only thing she saw was darkness. The only thing she heard was a piercing ring, high and shrieking. _Endlessly._

It was the same thing she heard now, huddled on one of the Clocktower’s sofas. Her heart beat slowly, as if every pump took more effort than her body was willing to put in. Her head ached from hours of uncontrollable crying, and above the sounds of her girls around her, all she could hear was that same, endless, unmistakable ring.

Appropriate. She’d been in more than one explosion through the years, but none of them had jarred her this bad. Had _hurt_ her this much.

Dina’s hand smoothing down the back of her hair, as she pulled Barbara closer into her embrace—it was all that could ground her. The others sat perched around the room like a murder of crows. Watching, waiting. Talking softly amongst themselves. The mood in the room was somber, like everyone had gathered for a funeral instead of a comfort-session.

In their defense, for the first four hours, they’d been nothing but supportive. Bringing boxes of tissues, bottles of wine, spare treats or snacks from their rooms or the kitchen—anything that they thought would help. The girls had all set up shop around one of the central couches, where Dina had helped Babs to settle and let her cry. Chatter ensued, brightly trying to lighten the mood. To keep her mind off of things.

But hours had passed. Other threats had reared their heads, and a few of the Birds had already drifted off to suit up and hit the streets. Gotham city crime was (with obvious exceptions) mostly a nocturnal affair. Cormorant, on the other hand, was a city that sported a collection of white-collar criminals, very brave muggers, and villains who didn’t mind wandering out into the light of day. The Birds of Prey, as a result, were needed around the clock.

Conversation had died out into brief smatterings of small talk, or light attempts at banter. But mostly, the other women just stared. Uncertain of how to help. Unsure if they _could._

They all knew Dick Grayson. He’d stopped by the Clocktower often during his and Barbara’s Nightwing-and-Oracle days. He got along well with all of them, managed to befriend most of them, and everyone knew him as either Barbara’s lover and confidant, or as backup whenever the need called for it. (Sometimes, they even knew him as the guy who brought free pizza, no questions asked.)

They loved him too, in their own way. And none of them could comprehend this whole mess, either.

So Barbara felt guilty for sitting around, sobbing, while the others worked or worried. The attention made her feel uncomfortable. She didn’t want their pity—she didn’t _deserve_ it.

These were the women she’d brought together under the same banner. She’d mentored them, led them, trained them, and then…she’d left them. Barbara had jumped at the chance of walking on her own two feet, and once again donning the bat symbol. She hadn’t bothered to look back at the warriors—her warriors—that she was leaving behind.

They _seemed_ to forgive her, but that didn’t compute in Barbara’s mind.

“Hey,” Dina whispered into her hair. The soothing hum of her voice made the swirling thoughts in Barbara’s mind drift away like windblown autumn leaves. “How’re you feeling, Red?”

The same question she’d asked on and off for a few hours now. It was usually answered with a soft whimper, a sniffle, or maybe even a renewed sob. But this time, Barbara managed to give a verbal reply.

“’m fine,” she whispered—could see the others lean forward a little, straining to hear what she’d said. “I just…”

Dina’s smile was fond. She squeezed Barbara once, then pulled away, swinging her legs off the edge of the couch cushion and onto the floor.

“Ladies,” she announced. “Not that this hasn’t been fun, but I think it’s time we run some training exercises.”

“Now, waita sec there, Di.” Zinda launched to her feet over by the fireplace. The woman’s hair was still wrapped in large blue curlers, and they stuck up from her head in spiky ridges. Barbara would’ve thought it was funny, if Zinda hadn’t burst out of her room in nothing but a nightgown just to give her a hug. “If she’s not done cryin’ over ‘active duty’ over there in Gotham, then who’re we to pass the buck? We should sit right here and wait her out!”

Dina’s eyes closed, then fluttered open as she cocked her head. “What?”

Tora frowned over on the throw rug, where she’d lounged as far away from the fire as she could get without leaving the circle of emotional support Birds. “Ach. My Enklish eez no good. Beatriz, my loff, what eez she sayink?”

Beatriz, who was wrapped around Tora like a silk ribbon, purred into her shoulder. “Well, how am _I_ supposed to know?”

“For the love of…Zin, darlin’ can’t’cha just talk normal for a sec?” Roxy piped up from her place on the hearth. “Not errbody speaks the lingo. I know _I_ sure don’t.”

“Alrighty, alrighty, no need to snap your caps.” Lady Blackhawk waved her hands, letting out a weary sigh. “Goodness _gracious,_ I miss my boys. They never had to ask what the #$%% I was sayin’, cause they spoke the same, and let me _tell_ you—”

“If by ‘active duty’,” Barbara said softly, causing the other women to fall quiet, “You mean Dic—Batman, then…don’t worry. I’m done crying over him.”

She stood, letting the soft blanket they’d draped over her shoulders slide off to pool on the floor. Her hands replaced the warmth on her arms as she crossed them tightly across her chest, trying to stave off the sudden chill. The others were looking up at her with a range of emotions, some even opening their mouths as if they wanted to encourage her to sit back down. But Barbara shook her head.

“I’m done.” The words were soft, but heavy, dropping on the room like a judge’s gavel. “Thank you all for being here for me. I can’t tell you how much that’s meant. But…Dina’s right—it’s time to get back to work.”

Shoulders squared around the room, eyes lighting up with the same fire she recognized from a thousand speeches she’d given before. They expected a pep talk, or a grandstanding address. Barbara wasn’t sure she had that in her, but whatever the case, she was still their leader. Or… _had been_ their leader. It wouldn’t be fair to just brush them aside. Not again.

So she let her arms fall, hands clasping behind the small of her back. Tipped her chin up after a quick nod to Dina. Her voice was heavy and hoarse with stale sobs, throat still aching a little, but she still managed to say, “The work we do here is important, whether that’s fieldwork, or training. Vixen, Savant, Creote, Black Alice, and Huntress have all hit the streets this morning—and if _Helena_ can zip herself into that suit of hers before five p.m. even _with_ an epic hangover, then that should tell you something.”

There was a smatter of chuckling at that. Barbara managed a shaky smile.

“The rest of us need to prepare for field duty, and we do that by training. I’m sorry we have to cut this short. I’m sorry if you were all looking forward to a lazy day off, because Oracle’s having a breakdown. But that’s over and done with, ladies. Watching me weep over a boy is off the agenda today.” She pulled the corners of her lips up to loosen the statement. “Oracle’s back to kick your collective #$$*$ into gear. We’re going to sweat. We’re going to work. And when that’s all done, we’ll hit the streets tonight with a vengeance. The Cormorant City Underworld isn’t going to know what hit them.”

That earned a cheer, and women popped to their feet all over the room. To Barbara’s surprise, they all rushed forward. Before she could even open her mouth to cry for help, she was drowned in a sea of Birds, hugging her and chattering excitedly. She met Dina’s eyes through the waves of hair and smiles, but the Black Canary could only smirk, raising one eyebrow high.

 _Traitor,_ Barbara thought with a smile.

The ache in her heart was still there, like a hot spike driven right into her chest. If she stopped to think too hard about it, she’d feel that searing agony all over again.

So she put on her best smile, laughed her most convincing laugh, and led the others to the training rooms.

Dick was… Dick was a heartache to cry over some other time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as everyone stepped out of the elevator, Alfred was waiting for them.

Dick had insisted on coming upstairs to get his own clothes, keeping the sheet Steph had found him in wrapped carefully around his lower half like a kilt. No one was allowed to get him food, bring him clothes, or even offer to help him walk. Which was typical—Dick always preferred taking care of others, instead of being taken care of—so no one was overly worried. But even so, they all stuck to him like bugs on a fly trap.

Alfred’s frown was somber. As soon as he saw Dick, the old man surged forwards, wrapping his arms around their brother’s bare shoulders as he let out a weary, heartbroken sound. It was a sound so foreign, so _unexpected_ of Alfred, that the others could only gape.

“Master Dick,” Alfred cried. “I am so, so terribly sorry, my boy. Do let me know if there’s anything you need. Anything at all.”

Dick buried his face in the man’s shoulder, sniffing once. “Thanks, Alf.”

Their embrace lasted for several long, drawn out minutes that had the others looking away, or counting the patterns on the carpet below their feet. There was something special about a Dick-Alfred hug. It was the kind of gesture that was born of familiarity and comfort. Definitely not something for outsiders to look at straight-on.

They all loved Alfred’s hugs. But Dick probably loved them most of all.

When Alfred finally pulled away, his gaze lingered skittishly on the young man before him. He started, then, and seemed to finally regain the power of speech. He snapped to attention; arms clasped behind his back. In his clipped voice, sliding right back into business-as-usual, he announced, “There are several guests waiting for you in the parlor, Master Dick. Shall we fetch you a fresh change of clothes before you meet with them?”

“Guests?” Jason demanded.

Tim asked, “Who is it, Alf?”

The old butler shared a meaningful look with Dick, and their older brother’s face lost all of its remaining color—which wasn’t much. He swallowed hard, and the others could practically _see_ the brick wall going up around him as his expression turned guarded. Dick reached up, brushing the hair out of his face, and managed to rasp, “A-actually, Alf, Tim was just talking about running a few extra tests. I was wondering…if you’d help me with that.”

Alfred’s eyebrows rose three inches up his head. “Indeed? And what about your comrades, Master Dick? They’re all quite concerned.”

Dick looked about as uncomfortable as any of them had ever seen him. He shifted onto one foot, then the other, eyes flicking downwards to stare at the floor. Sheepishly, he asked, “Please, Alf? I…just…I need you to do this for me.”

Alfred’s eyes filled with sudden understanding, and he gave them all a curt nod.

“Right, then. I’ll ask the rest of you to meet the guests in the parlor, while I attend to Master Dick.” He glanced over each of them individually, his message meaningfully clear. “We are not to be bothered. Tell them that their comrade is…otherwise indisposed.”

Dick’s face melted with relief. “Thanks, Alfred,” he sighed.

The butler nodded, smiling kindly as he placed a gently guiding hand on Dick’s shoulder. Both men stepped into the elevator, and let the doors slide shut with a soft hiss behind them.

Which left the other four standing awkwardly in the hallway, staring at each other with wide eyes or frustrated frowns. But they did what Alfred said, and made their silent way into the parlor.

Alfred was really the only one who called the sitting room a ‘parlor’, but maybe that was the more politically correct term. It was spacious and richly decorated, with a plush carpet that their feet sank into every time they entered. One wall was almost completely made up of windows, and there were a few potted plants that may or may not have been real at one point placed tastefully underneath each pane. In the corner, there was the piano that Jason and Damian liked to play, and Stephanie liked to play _with,_ and several plush chairs set out around a squat mahogany-and-glass coffee table.

They stepped into the room, and immediately, six people looked up.

The original members of the Team were sitting in their ‘parlor’, slumped over and waiting impatiently.

As soon as she caught sight of the Bats, Zatanna shot to her feet, arms hanging ready at her sides, and mouth pulled into an anxious frown. “Where’s Dick?” she demanded, and the sentiment was echoed all over the room. Roy frowned deeply from his seat at the piano while Kaldur, who was leaning on the large instrument, crossed his arms tight across his chest. M’gann and Conner stood close together by the windows, watching the newcomers warily. And Roquelle sank into the couch next to Zatanna, her scowl heated enough to melt steel.

The Bats didn’t know how to answer. So M’gann asked again,

“Where’s Dick? We need to see him.”

Tim opened his mouth, but just as suddenly felt the air leave his lungs in a yanking _whoosh._ Wally appeared in the middle of the room, just short of standing on top of the coffee table, and clapped his hands over his knees. His chest heaved as he gasped, “I came as soon as I heard!”

He looked up, panting, then frowned. “But… _apparently_ not as soon as you guys heard?”

Zatanna didn’t acknowledge his accusatory tone. “Wally, where’s Artemis?” she sighed.

Wally’s eyes bulged.

“Uh…justa sec—”

Tim lurched as another hurricane-grade wind buffeted him from the front. His hands shot out to grab the nearest sturdy anchor, and that happened to be Jason. A brief glance to the left told him that the others had all had the same idea, and Jason didn’t look thrilled by the fact.

Said anchor tried to shrug them off, but their grip was tight. Jason gave an annoyed grunt, then asked the assembled Leaguers, “What’re you all doing here?”

M’gann’s eyes glowed green. It was always a little unnerving when she used her telekinesis, simply because sometimes, it was easy to forget that she was a Martian when she wore the disguise of Megan Morse. But as she raised her hand, a magazine lifted out of Conner’s back left pocket, and unrolled. It zipped through the air, and landed with a small slap against the glass tabletop, sliding on the slick surface.

“We’re here because of that,” she said, voice as clipped as the hedges outside the window.

“I think,” Kaldur said slowly, “That as Dick’s friends, we are owed an explanation.”

“Owed?” Roy slammed the lid of the piano with a _bang._ The strings inside the piano rang from the force of it. “Try ‘entitled to’ on for size. We wanna know why Dick and Barb are plastered on the front of every tabloid from here to Star City!”

“Try Smallville,” Conner grumbled, brow lowering.

Another gust of wind, and Wally appeared right back in his place near the center of the room. This time, he was carrying a struggling Artemis bridal-style. She grunted, doing her best to separate his arms from her body, and hit the ground with a _thwump._ Her hair stuck up at odd angles from her head, like she’d been tossed into a wind tunnel.

 _“Wallace!”_ she snarled, shooting upright. “Give a girl more warning next time!”

“Sor-ry, beautiful. Just wanted to make sure you were in on this whole shebang.”

“Yeah? _I left the oven on, you cretin_.”

Wally’s eyes bulged. “Oh, _$#*^!”_

At the next burst of air, Stephanie threw out both arms, crying out, “Okay, okay, okay, _enough!_ What the #$%% gives, you guys?” She tossed an accusatory glance in the direction of each superhero with particular malice.

Artemis ignored her, instead turning to Zatanna as she smoothed down her hair. “I miss much?”

“Not really. We asked where Dick is, they’re not sharing, so we showed them the magazine.” The magician shrugged.

On cue, the Bats shuffled forwards to peer at the cover of the offending tabloid. It was easy to tell right off what had alarmed the other heroes in the room. It was a whole-page, fully-colorized photo of Dick Grayson, wearing nothing more than a wrinkled sheet, and stumbling out of a circus trailer. He looked absolutely wrecked, and anyone who didn’t know better would probably assume he was either drunk or high. Underneath that, in bold yellow letters, was the title: **IT’S OVER! Wayne Ward and Gold-Digging Domestic Finally Split!**

There were three smaller photos on the borders of the cover. One of Raya Vestri smiling triumphantly into a camera with the words: **Fellow Acrobat Has Grayson Flying High!**

Then two of Barbara. One with her in tears, teeth bared against a sob, and arm brandished partway over her face to shield herself from the photographer. The words **Babs Says ‘There’s Nothing Left!’** shone like a neon sign. And in the photo at the bottom, she seemed to have conquered her shyness—her face was closer to the camera, mouth open in a roar, and fingers extended like claws. None of them missed the glow of her eyes…

**Green-Eyed Monster Rampage!**

Included on the cover was a promised ‘exclusive’ interview with Raya Vestri—a tell-all about Dick Grayson’s newfound romance with the girl from the circus. Jason was the only one brave enough to touch the tabloid, and one look at the first article was all they needed to know.

“Vulture lady,” Stephanie snarled. “When I get my hands on her, I _swear_ I’m gonna—”

“Oh, Babs already did,” Roquelle piped up from her spot on the sofa. She raised her phone up like a stop sign, and showed them the video on its screen. Vicki Vale appeared dead center, with a red scrolling news ribbon unfurling beneath her. The reporter’s grin was smug as she crooned into a microphone, and though the sound emanating from the speaker was faint and tinny, they all heard loud and clear,

 _“…on the scene tonight after an anonymous tip led us here, to the Haly’s Circus. Where it would_ appear, _Paul, that Gotham’s Golden son, Dick Grayson, has fallen from his perfect pedestal. In fact I—”_ Vicki turned, and caught sight of something. Her eyes lit up like a pair of flaming torches, and her grin turned downright Cheshire-like. _“Miss Pennyworth! Hey, over here! Barbara Pennyworth!”_

The camera shook slightly as the man behind it jogged after Vicki to keep up. The reporter was chasing after a fleeing girl in a faded leather jacket and unmistakable red hair. Brandishing her microphone like a spear, Vale demanded,

_“Miss Pennyworth, could we get a comment from you tonight?”_

Barbara spun, arm held up to shield her face from the sudden flashlight being shone in her eyes. When she saw it was Vicki, she growled out a firm, _“Go directly to #$%%, Vale.”_

She looked to be tipping right over the edge of an outright breakdown, and it hurt their hearts to see it. Added to that, the flickering emerald hue of her irises that shone like a cat’s in the light of the news camera. Now that they knew what it meant, there could be no mistaking—

_“Now, now, Miss Pennyworth! Your boyfriend’s been sleeping around. Is this the first you’ve heard of it? When did you know that you’d fallen out of Grayson’s favor? Any replacements lined up? Who’re you going to leech off, next?”_

Vale fired off each successive question like a spray of bullets, and Barbara seemed to flinch with each one, like a real projectile had pierced her chest. Then, her eyes lit up with fire. In the space of a blink, her hand shot up and wrapped around the microphone. She ripped it from the reporter’s grip, and with a snarl, snapped it over her knee.

 _“ &*$#!” _Vale shrieked. _“You can’t just—"_

Holding up the two sparking halves of the mic, Barbara sneered. There was a wild look in her bulging eyes, and through her teeth, she snarled out, “ _I said—go—di—rect—ly—to_ #$%%!”

She flung the mic’s shattered corpse at the camera, and the feed cut out with a blaze of static. Leaving them all to stand still in shocked silence as Roquelle lowered her phone back into her lap.

“Like I said,” she grumbled.

“So.” Artemis clapped her hands, picking things up right where they’d left off. Her voice was sweet as honey and sharp as a razor blade. “What the &^$# happened last night?”

“We’ve known Barbara for years, now,” Zatanna snapped. “And I can count on one _hand_ the number of times I have ever seen her cry.”

“And we’ve known Dick for even longer,” Wally said, walking around Jason and Damian to stand with the rest of his Team mates. He’d stepped in unnoticed, but judging by the hard set of his jaw and shoulders, he wasn’t looking to stay that way. The speedster crossed his arms over his chest, and widened his stance. It was clear that he was there to stay. “He would _never_ do something like this. Not to Babs. And not to _himself.”_

Kaldur pushed off the piano, stalking over like a shark slicing through a wave. “So we will ask again. What happened?”

The Bats side-eyed each other warily. These were Dick’s friends. His oldest allies. Apart from his family, these metas (and Artemis) were probably the only people on Earth Dick trusted without question. But…

“We…” Tim started, trailing off. Uncertain. Hesitant. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, and he darted a pleading glance at Steph. She could only shrug.

Jason, luckily, came to the rescue. He cleared this throat, and matched Wally’s stance exactly. With a voice harder than steel, he said, “It isn’t our place to tell you. You’d have to ask Dick.”

“And he doesn’t want to see you,” Damian growled.

All eyes snapped to the youngest Robin, narrowing or widening, depending upon the onlooker. For a tense few seconds, there was silence, filled only by the sound of the clock ticking on the wall. Outside the window, a crow cackled in one of the trees.

Artemis blinked, then glowered. “What do you mean, ‘he doesn’t want to see us’?”

The others exploded.

“We’re his friends, you little emo fr—”

“Who d’you people think you are, just—"

“We wanna help! Now—"

“Let us talk to him or else I’ll—”

“Guys.” Wally threw up a hand, and the outraged cries of the others died out. Their stances loosened, and their incensed expressions were dampened. It was surprising to see the speedster command authority over the group—usually it was only Artemis, Kaldur or Dick who could reign the meta group in. But the Bats saw the other heroes mellow slightly, and look to the Flash for…direction. Wally seemed to know something the rest of them didn’t. And the others recognized that right away.

Wally lowered the hand, and nodded slightly to himself. Then, he turned towards the bookshelves. “Miss M, would you do a sweep of the house for our favorite boy wonder?”

M’gann blinked rapidly, visibly surprised, before her eyes glowed with emerald light, and fluttered shut. For a few moments, the rest watched her carefully. The Martian’s face screwed up with concentration. Then, when a minute or two had passed, her eyes snapped open.

“He’s in the Cave,” she moaned, like it was something she should have suspected earlier on.

“Great.” Artemis turned on her heel, ready to stalk off towards the Grandfather clock down the hall. “Let’s just go and—”

Wally stopped his wife with a hand on her shoulder. She spun around, gaping, as she was met by his cold, expressionless stare. Her eyes traced over his carefully. Then, she relaxed. And let _him_ walk towards the sitting room’s exit.

“Hey, where the &*#% do you think you’re going?” Roy demanded. “Wal, let us—”

Wally threw a glance over his shoulder, and it was surprisingly hostile.

“Will,” he snapped, “just don’t.”

Steph leaned over to Jason, and stage-whispered, “Who’s Will?”

Roy whirled around, a snarl twisting at his mouth. He looked like a rabid Doberman ready to go for the kill, and Jason tensed up. He glared heatedly at the other man. The Red Arrow didn’t back down at the sight of Jason’s Bat-Glare, but he did lose a little of his fire.

“I’m Will,” he snapped. “Changed my name. Whatever. Wally, get the #$%% back here!”

“Will’s right,” M’gann said softly. “Dick needs us to—”

“No.” Wally’s tone was firm. The speedster wasn’t going to budge, and that revelation seemed to sober the others like someone had flipped a switch. “What Dick _needs_ is one-on-one with his best pal, and if what I think happened _happened,_ then you all are just gonna have to trust me.”

Roquelle shifted on the couch. “But—”

“Trust him,” Artemis affirmed with a sigh. “He knows what he’s doing.”

Wally nodded, and in a blur of color and sound, he was gone.

Someone could have dropped a feather in the room, and it would have been deafening. The remaining Team members and Bat siblings eyed each other with cautionary frowns. It wasn’t every day that metas dropped by Gotham, so the Bats were instinctively on their guard. And the Team was thrown off-balance by their former members’ odd behaviors, so they were looking for any excuse to lash out.

They’d only entered their fourth minute of complete silence when Stephanie seemed to have had enough. She let out a low whistle, rocking on her heels, before she said, carefully,

“So. Will…short for ‘William?”

“No.”

“Like…’William Tell?’”

“ _No.”_

Artemis let out a surprised snicker, and tossed her head towards her fellow Arrow-kid. “You sure, bro? Ollie shoots at you all the time.”

“Do you accept constructive criticism?” Steph mused.

“ _No!”_

“Okay, okay, but just consider…” Stephanie framed her hands in the air. “ _Bill._ ”

Will groaned.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A fist whished by her ear as Barbara ducked and spun. The displacement of the air fluttered at the edges of her hair, and she let out a low growl. Slid low, lashing out with a foot. Her opponent was too clever for that, though, and she jumped. Barbara’s feet kicked harmlessly beneath her, and the woman in the air landed on top of her, hands pressing her shoulders into the mat with a _thwack._

She grit her teeth, skull ringing from the sudden blow. Then smiled up at the woman straddling her waist. The ends of her white-blonde braid tickled Barbara’s cheek. Her ice-chip colored eyes were narrowed.

“Well,” Dawn crooned, smirking down at Barbara with a triumphant lilt to her lips. “Looks who’s started ‘relying too much on her legs’?”

Flashback to a training exercise two years ago. A sparring match between Dove and a still-wheelchair-bound Oracle. Dawn Granger hadn’t stood a chance, and Barbara had probably sported the same cocky smirk as she criticized her opponent’s fancy kicks and footwork.

The irony, needless to say, was not lost on either of them, now.

“Dawn, Dawn, Dawn,” Barbara sighed, tilting her head lazily to the side. “Keep it in your pants, sweetie. Hank’s watching.”

Dawn giggled, sparing a flick of her eyes in the Hawk’s direction. Hank had emerged from the kitchen once the ‘girl talk’ was over, and he’d deemed it ‘safe to come out’. Sentimentality wasn’t his thing, and comfort even less so. (Although, he’d offered to beat up Dick for her as they walked to the training room. It was an offer Barbara politely declined.) Now, he was sparring with Barda a few mats over, and losing badly, based on the sounds and curses that streamed from his mouth.

“Maybe he doesn’t mind.” Dawn hummed, leaning down to place a quick peck on Barbara’s forehead. “He didn’t mind before.”

Barbara’s smirk grew, and she could see Dove’s angelic smile freeze on her face. Her eyes frosted over with a calculating sheen. Given a few more seconds, she probably could have figured out where her hold on her old leader went wrong. But Barbara didn’t give her that time.

Barbara’s hands, which had laid deceptively still at her sides, twisted, shot up, and grasped Dawn’s locked elbows. Barbara threw her hips up, twisted her shoulders. Her body followed the movement, and she flipped Dawn onto _her_ back with a satisfying _smap_ against the mat. Dove’s eyes went wide with surprise. Then, a sheepish smile dimpled at her mouth.

“Left the hands free.” The corners of Barbara’s lips quirked up, and she huffed out a laugh. “Funny, you never used to forget, before…”

Dawn let out a squawk of mock-outrage, grinning even as she let her mouth fall open in a fake gasp.

Barbara slid off the other woman and climbed to her feet. Her chest rose and fell, heart drumming in her chest with a satisfyingly staccato beat. She turned, smiled, and offered Dawn a hand up.

“Ah,” Dawn sighed with a smile. “Seeing you on your feet’s definitely something I’ll have to get used to.”

“You and me, both.”

Dove’s fingers were cold in Barbara’s hand, and cool when she laid the others on her shoulder. Squeezed. “You know,” she said gently. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry about what happened last night.”

Barbara’s smile died. She turned her head, and caught sight of Dina sparring with another opponent. Male. Tall. Well-built. It was difficult to identify him, from the back. And he moved so quickly, so fluidly, that it was difficult to tell where Dina’s fists ended, and the strange man’s kicks began. Creote and Savant were both out in the field, and Wildcat was still overseas handling a weapons deal in Malaysia. Hank was otherwise occupied, so who…?

“You guys’ve taken breaks before. Maybe this is just some big misunderstanding?” Dove’s soft voice comforted.

A cold fist closed over her heart, and Barbara’s voice was tight. “I found him in bed with another woman, Dawn. I don’t think I _misunderstood.”_

Her tone was too miserable to get a rise out of Dawn, so she just gave Barbara’s shoulder another reassuring squeeze. “Well, whatever the case. If you ever need some comforting…mine and Hank’s door is always open.”

Barbara’s fingers slid up, laced themselves with Dawn’s. “Thank you. I really do appreciate the offer, Dawnie. But…”

Dawn’s chin dipped to meet Barbara’s eyes. Once they made contact, they crimped at the edges with an understanding smile. “ _But_ we both agreed we’re better as friends, right? I remember.”

“Then, you’re okay if—”

“Sweetie, your heart’s still hurting.” Dawn shrugged, and released her hold, letting her arms swing down to her sides. They stayed there for only a few seconds, before they swung up into a lazy stretch. The muscles in her biceps flexed, her back arched, and her eyes fluttered shut. “ _Mmmhh,”_ she groaned, smiling. Then let her lids flick open, and her gaze fall back on Barbara’s still tear-stained face. “Believe me. I get it.”

Dawn bent in half to wrap her hands around her ankles, then slid back into upright position. She was running through her workout stretches, probably readying herself for a few laps around the training room. Barbara should have been doing the same; the muscles in her legs ached uncomfortably, and the ones in her shoulders were painfully tight.

Instead, she rolled them experimentally, and settled her hands on her hips.

Dawn’s trunk was twisted, as she rested both hands on the toe of her left shoe. With a puff, she blew a stray lock of hair out of her eyes, and smiled up at Barbara sweetly as she straightened, mirroring her pose exactly.

“Hey,” she breathed, eyes twinkling. “I just thought I’d offer, in case that’s what you needed, right now. But if not? Totally fine.”

Barbara smiled, dipping her chin slightly in thanks. “I think all I need right now’s the chance to wipe that smug smile off Canary’s face.” She raised an arm, flexing her bicep comically until Dawn giggled. “How much do you wanna bet I can pin her in under five?”

“Hundred bucks.” Dawn raised an eyebrow. “Cause _she’s_ been schooling all of us while _you’ve_ been batting it easy across the river.”

“Easy?” Barbara gasped, already stepping towards Dina’s mat. She waved a dismissive hand. “ _Easy!_ Baby, it’s so hard, _you_ wouldn’t last a minute!”

Dawn’s laugh trailed after her. “Just look who’s talking…”

Barbara’s head whipped around with a burst of laughter, and she flashed a choice finger in the air. The other Birds had finished off on their sparring, gazing over at the pair as they bantered. Snickering trilled up from their ranks as they moved in, and followed Barbara to Black Canary’s mat. They almost buzzed with their eagerness to see a real fight go down.

Dina leapt into the air as if she were defying gravity completely. Her legs wrapped around the man’s neck, and she twisted her whole frame. The pull of the earth suddenly became her closest ally as they both careened to the ground, landing with a deafening thump that lifted the edges of the weighted mat.

Cheers went up from the Birds, and Dina flipped the hair out of her face with a triumphant huff of air. She helped the loser to his feet, and when he turned, Barbara’s jaw dropped.

“Cal?”

Calvin Rose whirled. His eyes settled on her in surprise, before his face melted into a soft smile.

“There’s our B-girl,” he said warmly, holding out a fist, thumb-up. “I was wondering when I’d see you.”

Barbara tapped the fist with her own, before their fingers both unclasped to wrap around each other’s wrists. They leaned in, exchanging a few quick pats on the back before pulling away. The greeting was familiar—a special handshake used in the rougher parts of Gotham as a promise of no ill-will between street kids—but Barbara’s frown never disappeared. She tossed a questioning glance in Dina’s direction, but the Canary didn’t catch it. Her eyes fluttered shut as she rolled out her shoulders and brushed her blonde curls behind her ears.

“How long have you been here?” Barbara asked Calvin, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugged. The gesture seemed more massive than it was, coming from his overly broad shoulders. “Since last night.”

“Last…” Barbara squinted. Glanced over the edge of his arm to peer at Dina, who was still lazily working through her stretching. Sure enough, she could see a small ring of coloration around her friend’s throat. A necklace of hickies, perhaps?

“You two?” Her eyebrows shot up faster than her gaze darted back to Calvin’s golden wolf-eyes. They watched her just as carefully. “How long have—?”

“Just a few weeks. We’re…trying things out.”

Barbara was too busy wrapping her mind around that particular thought to notice the woman who came up to hug her from behind. Arms laced around her stomach, chin settled on Barbara’s shoulder, Dina gave a teasing little hum and shook Barbara playfully.

“I hear you’re looking for a fight, Babes.”

Barbara shook off the startling revelation that was Talon and Black Canary’s newfound relationship, and let herself smile. Tipping back into Dina’s hold, she said, “Well, figures you’d try to take the top-dog spot while I was away, Di. I think it’s time I showed everybody here who’s _really_ in charge.”

Dina laughed, spinning Barbara out of her hold. “That so? Well, fine.”

She gripped her elbow in one hand, rolling her shoulder as she swaggered back onto the mat. Hips waving, eyebrows waggling, she smirked wide. As she slid into a starting position, she added, “But when I pin your sorry butt to the ground, I’ll be expecting a heartfelt apology.”

Barbara returned the smirk. Set one foot on the mat, then another, and another. She stalked forward like a panther, prowling for prey. Rolling her own shoulders experimentally, Barbara let her arms loosen at her sides. “Yeah? And just how heartfelt are we talking?”

“Financial compensation, sweetheart.” Dina’s thumb jabbed over her shoulder. “If I win, you have to match and pay off every last dollar that these lovely ladies bet on you…to me.”

 “Interesting idea,” Barbara conceded. They began circling each other carefully. “And if I do lose, I’ll shell out every last cent. But _when_ I win, let’s say…you pick up everybody else’s dish duty for a month?”

A roar of approval went up from the gathering Birds. Loudest of all was Roxie, who hated cleaning anything, let alone dishes. They all pressed in closer, forming a loose ring around the sparring mat. Shouts of encouragement for either side were tossed around, and bets were quickly haggled. Barbara smiled when she realized that the choice between either was proving more and more difficult. No one wanted to bet against Oracle—even in a wheelchair, she’d been almost unbeatable. And Dina was…well, _Dina._

Whatever the case, Barbara had a very real need to hit something. And since that person couldn’t be Raya Vestri, it may as well be Dina Lance, who could take the hit in stride before returning in kind. Better, she figured, to fight someone who could punch back.

Besides, Barbara had a very real need to feel something other than the sharp agony of last night. And bruises would heal faster than anything else that had been damaged by Dick’s betrayal. So, _good._ Let the punches roll—she couldn’t wait to take them.

Dina rolled her neck, grinning. “Dishes? That’s it? Could’ve made me give up a whole lot more than that, Red. But…” She sighed, and raised her fists into a defensive position in front of her chest. “When _I_ win, I’ll be a whole lot richer, so who am I to complain?”

Cal was standing somewhere behind Barbara. She could feel his eyes on her almost tangibly, watching.  For whatever reason, it made her skin crawl, and she couldn’t resist the shiver that prickled up her arms. Barbara suddenly felt very much like a field mouse who’d been spotted by a winged predator, and when she visibly shuddered, it wracked her entire frame.

“Everything okay?” Dina smirked.

Barbara raised her own fists. “Maybe you could put some of that cash towards the heating bill, Di. Are we missing a few payments?”

“Ha! Noted.”

“Now enough foreplay, Di.” Barbara smirked. “Shall we?”

Dina’s wry smile was unmatchable. “We shall.”

Barbara threw the first punch. Dina knocked it away with a flick of her wrist, and spun, kicking out. Barbara ducked quickly, arching her back as she bent nearly in half. Her opponent’s heel sailed just above her face. She used the backwards momentum to fall, caught her weight on the heels of her hands as they clapped against the mat. Dina took the bait, and advanced, probably expecting Barbara to bring things lower.

But Barbara brought both feet up into Dina’s chin, fast as lightning.

Canary staggered back, crying out, and a few whoops popped out from the crowd.

As her feet came down, Barbara launched herself upright, and tossed a kick of her own. Dina ducked underneath, rolling her head and shoulders out of the way. When she came up, her eyes were sharp and focused. She lunged, one fist raised. Barbara caught it in both hands before it could make contact with her nose and spun behind Dina’s back. She wrenched her opponent’s arm behind her, pinning Dina’s wrist to the spot below her shoulder blades.

“That’s the best you’ve got?” Barbara laughed into Dina’s ear. “I’ll tell Zinda to get the dish soap ready.”

But the Black Canary could only tip her head back with a grin. It was an evil sort of grin.

“Gotcha,” Dina crowed.

Barbara’s eyes widened as she realized her mista—

Dina kicked off the ground, arching her torso sideways in a feat of flexibility that left the other Birds gasping. Her legs came around to sandwich Barbara’s head, as she locked her heels behind the redhead’s neck. She let go of Dina’s arm, more out of shock than anything, and Dina’s whole body twisted. Gravity came for them both, then, and they hit the mat simultaneously.

Barbara’s teeth clacked together. Her skull rang. Dina settled on top of her, smirking down as she pinned Barbara’s wrists to the mat above her head.

“Five seconds before you lose,” Dina sang with a smile.

Barbara blew a few strands of hair out of her mouth. “You left my legs open, you know.”

“Four…three…”

“Fine, Di, if you _want_ to keep dancing—” Barbara arched, brought her ankles up to cross over Dina’s throat. Canary didn’t even have the decency to act surprised as her whole body was pulled backward against the mat. Barbara moved to get to her feet, but never got the chance before she was slammed back down. This time on her face. Her chest.

The pressure only increased as Dina positioned herself on Barbara’s back. The epicenter was her ribcage, which seemed to be bending, and caving in. She couldn’t draw in a full breath, and this time, her legs _were_ pinned down. Her arms were pressed uncomfortably tight against the ridges of her spine—and pressing harder as Dina leaned in. The pain pinched at Barbara’s shoulders, and she let out a soft squeak.

“Di—” she gasped.

Her face was pressed to the floor. She couldn’t see the ceiling, or anything else, really, besides the feet of the people standing nearby. But she was on the ground. And she couldn’t _move._

Her voice was a tight croak. Even she could hear the panicked edge. “Alright, Di, you win, I don’t— _hhk._ ”

Barbara wasn’t claustrophobic, at least not usually. But she was beginning to feel too close, too tight. Unable to move, unable to breathe. She could feel her heart thudding in her ear drums, magnified by the proximity to the mat. She thrashed in her friend’s grip, but couldn’t move even an inch. Her eyes screwed shut as she bared her teeth.

“Dina, _get off me!”_

Above her, Canary let out the nonchalant shadow of a laugh. “Hey, this is what you wanted, Babs. Talk big, get—”

“Di, she said _off!”_

The weight disappeared from her back, and Barbara let out a heaving gasp.

Her heart knocked against her ribs, and air flooded back into her lungs, making her head spin. Someone’s hand was on her shoulder, cool and soft. It helped her to roll onto her back, and this time, she could see the ceiling. It made her nerves zing with sudden adrenalin, and she hissed in a breath through her teeth.

“Hey. Shh. You’re okay.”

Barbara’s eyes snapped back into focus, and she could see Dawn’s and Zinda’s faces above her, on either side. They stared down, watching carefully. Twin frowns laced with concern tilted at their lips, and they shared a tight glance.

“Can you stand, hon?” Zinda asked her gently. A line appeared between her brows.

Barbara shook her head, still breathing raggedly.

Of course, she couldn’t stand. Couldn’t they see the hole in her middle—couldn’t they see the blood?

Barbara’s hands dragged up her sides from the floor. She brought them up to her stomach, letting them rest on the spot. There was no wetness, but she didn’t dare look. She didn’t want to see the blood again…didn’t want…

“Hey.” Dawn brushed a little of the hair from Barbara’s face. Her eyes were soft as she glanced down to the Oracle’s feet. Was she seeing it, too? The blood? The gore? Barbara had the urge to pull away—but there was nowhere to go. To draw in on herself—but she couldn’t move.

“Bend your knees,” Zinda prompted, like she was coaxing a skittish animal out of the shadows. “Just bend ‘em, Skipper. You’ll see.”

No. No, it wouldn’t work. Couldn’t they see? She was—she was _ruined—_

Two different hands cupped below her knees, and lifted. Barbara let her heels drag over the mat, felt the cool material run beneath her skin—

She could feel that.

Barbara wiggled her toes.

She could _do_ that.

And, slowly, she moved her legs on her own, bending her knees. Zinda’s hand was a reassuring press against her back as she helped Barbara sit upright. Dawn’s hand was on her shoulder. She leaned in to whisper into the shell of Barbara’s ear.

“Your name is Barbara Delphi. Orac—Batwoman. The time is three twenty-seven p.m. The date is October the seventh. You’re in the Birds’ Nest. The Clocktower. Cormorant City. Barbara, do you know where you are?”

Dawn was agitated—Barbara could tell by the way her accent was jumping out. It always crept through when she was sleepy or anxious, or even absentminded. What did she call it again? Received Pronunciation? It was something British… (Everyone else just called it her ‘Emma Watson’ accent…) Barbara pulled her knees closer to her chest, and dragged in a heavy breath through her nose. On the exhale, she said, “Cormorant City. The Clocktower. Birds’ Nest.”

“Good,” Dawn sighed. Tapped her shoulder reassuringly, and looked up towards the others, who were staring down with open concern. A few of them shifted on the balls of their feet, as if deliberating between jumping in to help or leaving their leader be. Barbara nodded to her girls, managing a weak smile, then let Zinda and Dawn help lift her to a standing position.

Nearby, Barda was standing between Barbara and Dina, her thick arms barred over her chest. The woman was a good nine feet tall, and decently sturdy, so Barbara had a hard time seeing around her. But still, she could spot Dina shifting uncomfortably on the other side, one hand pressed to her temple as if suffering a migraine.

Cal was standing at her side, whispering something into her ear. His expression was tight and angry, and his words seemed scalding. Dina flinched a little.

“She’s more prone to attacks when tired or emotionally strained,” Dawn was telling a concerned Bird nearby. It was background noise, but it still filtered into Barbara’s consciousness as she gazed at Dina and Cal. The former had looked up, and was hissing angrily back at the latter. Cal’s shoulders hunched like a tiger’s when it was about to spring. “She’ll be fine. Just a brief episode. We’ll get her back to—”

“Babs.” Dina turned, eyes welling over with tears, now. It was a night-and-day difference from the confident smirk she’d sported before and during their match. She pressed past Barda, ignoring the taller woman’s bellow of protest, and marched towards her friend. Barbara gasped a little as Dina threw her arms around her shoulders and squeezed. “I’m so sorry. I completely forgot.”

Dawn’s voice was clipped and accented. She stepped forward, probably sneering, though Barbara couldn’t see it in her line of sight. “How could you forget? You can’t pin her like that! You shouldn’t pin anyone like that!”

“I got carried away.” Dina’s tone was flat and stony. She turned away from Dove, and buried her face in Barbara’s hair. “It won’t happen again, Babes. I _promise_.”

Barbara exhaled shakily, and Dina’s grip tightened.

“Hey. Hey, shh. I’ll make it up to you, okay? Let’s patrol tonight. Just you, me, and Cal.”

“Dina, the _last_ thing she needs is—!”

“Granger, butt _out.”_ Dina snapped. Barbara couldn’t see their faces—but she imagined there were bared teeth and flashing eyes.

So, she pulled away, and looked at them both. Sure enough, they were glaring daggers. The edges softened a little when they fixed their gazes on her, but Barbara could only frown in return.

“Patrol sounds great,” she clipped. “But I don’t have a suit.”

“Yes, you do.” Calvin’s protest made Barbara blink in surprise. The older man stepped closer, onto the mat, though he seemed hesitant to do so. His feet ghosted over the surface carefully, as if he were being wary of hidden land mines, and he approached with caution. Dina’s shoulders went slack as he moved to stand next to her. She leaned into his side, and he looped an arm around her waist. Barbara would have been surprised at the grade of familiarity—they’d been together _how_ long?—but at the moment, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

“You do,” Cal repeated. “In the cases outside.”

Sudden understanding struck her like a freight bus. She was left reeling and unsteady.

Barbara shook her head. “That’s a display case.  That’s…not my uniform anymore.”

“It can be.” Dina met her eyes with a sheepish smile. “We…we were gone…when you first put on the cowl, Babs. We missed out on so much. I’m sorry for that.”

“But tonight,” Cal added. He held up a hand imploringly. “Dina and I want to make up for lost time. We want to patrol the streets with you, fight with you— _fly_ with you. Please, just…”

Dina’s tone was laced with resolution and regret. “Let us make it up to you.”

Dove’s hand was on her shoulder again, and she turned Barbara aside. Mouth pressed near her ear, Dawn hissed, “This isn’t a good idea.”

“No $#!^,” Barbara muttered.

“She’s been acting weird all day.”

“Wait, no she—"

“And _you’re_ in no shape to go out and—”

Barbara shook the hand off her shoulder, whirling on Dove with a tight frown. “Excuse me?”

Dawn’s posture was unwavering, and her whispered tone was even more so. “You just broke up with the _love_ of your _life,_ then had a #*&% _flashback,_ Barbara. When I say you’re in no shape, I _mean_ that you’re in no shape. You shouldn’t be going anywhere.”

“This may come as a shock to you, Dawnie,” Barbara snarled, pulling her hand away before Dove could snatch it up. “But I have _actually_ dealt with worse things than boy problems and bad memories.”

“You’re de _flecting,”_ Dawn derided. “And you’re shoving things down so you don’t have to deal with the pain. That doesn’t shock me in the slightest, because that’s just what you _do,_ Babs _._ But I’m telling you right now that _something doesn’t feel right._  I’m just asking you to trust me! _”_

Something ignited—something hard and scorching—at the sound of that word. ‘ _Trust’._ It made the muscles in her body lock up, made her spine straighten like a ramrod. Barbara wanted to scream, but instead, all she could do was shove past Dawn Granger to stand in front of Calvin and Dina, arms crossed over her chest.

“It’s a date,” she snapped. “Tonight. Sundown.”

Cal’s grin was blinding. “Black Canary, Talon, and Batgirl. The trio that never was, flying together at last.”

Dina nudged him with a saucy eyeroll. “You _sap.”_

Barbara managed a small smile of her own, but didn’t miss Dawn’s clipped footsteps behind her. The training room door swung open, and shut with a stark _bang._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Wally hadn’t been down to the Cave in…how many years had it been, now?

Back when he and Dick wore the bright-colored spandex and answered to the original Flash and Batman respectively, Wally had come down a lot more. Barry would work with Bruce on some case or another, and bring his new protégé along. Some days, it would just be Kid Flash scooting around the Cave and taking in the sights. Others, he’d find a small boy perched in the shadows, watching him like a hawk. It didn’t take long to get on the mysterious sidekick’s good side. Robin had been a lonely kid. Kid Flash was chatty. And the rest, needless to say, was history.

It was a history full of days and nights spent playing FireCrest or Kill Order on the BatComputer, or sneaking bags of chips and boxes of junk food into the exercise room to goof off and eat crap while Bruce and Barry thought they were ‘training’. Wally passed the door, peering inside with a fond feeling in his chest, before he kept walking. There was the Batmobile…they stole that a few times (Dick never let Wally drive, for whatever reason) and went joyriding. There was the spot, just over by the costume cases where they’d experimented to see if Wally could phase through solid objects. (The answer was ‘not completely’, so Bruce had had to come down and find a way to get Wally’s head out of the glass display window. Dick didn’t stop laughing for _weeks._ ) He nodded up at the Giant Dinosaur (never did get around to figuring out what _that_ was about). He and Dick had left a few hidden messages scrawled in ballpoint pen on the roof of its mouth. Bruce either hadn’t known, or didn’t care.

He knew to go to the infirmary. M’gann had just said he was in the Cave, but Wally knew _where._

They had a history, after all. And history had a habit of repeating itself.

Wally didn’t know what had happened last night. Just the basics: circus, Raya, Barbara, and Dick—who found it hard enough to deal with his past, anyway. Wally could only hope that whatever had happened hadn’t brought too many old wounds to the surface.

There was the door. He rapped on it twice, drew in a shaky breath, then pressed down on the knob.

Dick’s eyes snapped to Wally’s when he stepped into the room. He was sitting on one of the metal exam tables, wearing nothing but an off-white hospital gown. His legs dangled over the side, knuckles white as they clamped over the table’s edge. A thousand memories of broken bones, blood, and worst-case scenarios flooded into Wally’s mind, and he felt his jaw loosen.

“Hey, KF.” Dick’s voice was weak. He ducked his head a little, hair falling over a set of bloodshot eyes that darted away quickly. Licking his cracked lips, he added in a whisper, “You shouldn’t be down here.”

Alfred was there too—he turned slightly at the sound of Dick’s crackling words, but must have seen something on both their faces. Because, with a weary sigh, he turned back to the machine he was typing at with dutiful rigidity.

Wally’s heart skipped a few beats. “Like #$%%, man.”

He was at his best pal’s side in the time it took them both to blink. His eyes roved over the younger man, searching for blood, stitches, bandages or…anything. Dick always got a little sheepish when he was injured. Used to be that he was worried it was a show of weakness—none of the other Team members ever got hurt as bad as he did. Not even Artemis—she’d broken her arm once on a mission and firmly told them all that she’d ‘walk it off’. And she did, never even breaking a sweat.

But when Robin got hurt—which was a _lot,_ due to the kid’s incessant need to flip off of random $#!^ and taunt every baddie in range with a knife or gun—he liked to hide. From the Team, from Batman. _Everybody._ Only three people could ever really reach him when he was badly enough hurt, and that was Alfred, Wally, and Barbara.

He’d gotten better through the years, once concerned little siblings had started popping out of the woodwork. And when he’d started to realize that nobody—not Bruce, or the Team or _anyone—_ blamed him when he got hurt.  Nowadays, it was only when something _really_ bad happened that Dick hid himself away.

“Hey.” Wally leaned down a little, attempting to make eye contact. He tried to keep his voice light and playful, and hoped against hope that Dick couldn’t hear the anxious undertone. “Care to tell me why your fairy godfather over there’s got you all gowned up? Is there a ball I wasn’t invited to?”

He expected to get a chuckle, an eyeroll, _something._ Maybe even a dry quip, _‘Well, gee, Wall-man. I can always ask Alf to turn you into a horse—who knows? Might even ‘up’ your speed stats.’_

But Dick only stared off into space. “Not exactly.”

Wally sobered instantly, hoisting himself up onto the table next to Dick. Their feet swung together, and they both stared down, watching Dick’s swinging toes, and Wally’s waving shoes in complete silence.

There was a time for banter, but there were also times when it was better to just stay quiet and wait. And this, Wally decided, was one of those times.

Alfred worked in the background, the machines and monitors humming and clicking mechanically behind them. But aside from that, and the distant noises from upstairs—Will was yelling about something, but it was too muffled to make out—there was no other sound in the room.

But silence had never been their thing.

Dick’s thing, maybe. As a Batkid, it _had_ to be, sometimes. But once you mixed the former Robin and Kid Flash together, you were in for a noisy reaction. So, really, it was only a matter of time before Dick opened his mouth.

At first, all that came was a small squeak of an exhale. Then a slight gasp. It sounded like crying, but Wally knew it wasn’t. It was the same kind of noise the younger man had always made when the wind was knocked out of his lungs. But still…it wasn’t an easy sound to hear.

Dick wet his lips. Finally said, voice hushed and hoarse, “Wally—”

“Yeah, Rob?”

“—I #^#%*& up. I #^#%*& up so bad.”

He lowered his face into his hands, and gave out a wrenching dry sob that shook his entire frame.

“Hey, hey, whoa.” Wally looped an arm over Dick’s shoulders, pulling him in closer. “Just tell me what happened. Okay? Everything.”

So Dick sniffled. Buried his head in Wally’s shoulder…and just laid it all out. Every last detail. Every horrible word. He started out describing a party with his old circus buddies, taking a drink of wine that was a little too salty, waking up feeling like he’d been hit by a train. Alfred chimed in to inform them that the effects shouldn’t last much longer—the dosage had been extremely low. It was as if the circus was completely aware of Dick’s low tolerance. (In fact, Wally was sure of it.) Then he described how he’d woken up intertwined with his old friend, Raya…and the look on Barbara’s face. Her words, her tears, her slap across his face.

By the end of it, Wally wasn’t sure who to be angrier with—the people who had done this to Dick…or _Barbara._

“She’s supposed to be some great detective, or whatever,” Wally sneered, holding his friend a little tighter. “She should’ve known, man. She should’ve been there to help you.”

Dick drew in a shaky gasp. “You…you don’t unders…look, we’d just had this huge _fight._ The kind where you just…you both walk away pissed and wanting to lash out. She must’ve—must’ve thought that I…”

“Cheated to get back at her?” Wally’s voice was flat. Angry. “Dude. You’ve been together since you were sixteen. She should know you better than that.”

“We’ve taken breaks,” Dick muttered, like it mattered.

Breaks or no, Dick and Barbara always got back together, picking up right where they’d left off. Sure, they’d tried seeing other people before, taking time off, experimenting with the idea of being apart, just to see if what they had would stick. And so far? It always had.

They never stayed apart for more than a few weeks at a time. And when they were together…they were _together._

Wally had always been a little jealous, honestly, of how ‘in-sync’ the two of them were. He’d always had to work at his relationship with Artemis. She was—as a good friend of his once said—a total ‘spitfire’, and boy howdy, did she show it. They fought sometimes, sure. What couple didn’t? They didn’t always see eye to eye. They needed more space, more communication. But it worked, and it worked _great._

Dick and Babs, though…they never seemed to need any of that. It always just…clicked.

Or so he’d thought.

“Right,” Wally sighed. “Well, then, what was the fight about?”

Dick paused. Took a deep, shuddering breath. Then, “Trust.”

“Trust?”

“Yeah. We…we haven’t been talking, lately. Not really.”

“About?”

“She just…” Dick ran a hand over his face with a stuttered sigh. “She’s got something going on, man. Something planned. You ever hear of the Court of Owls?”

“Uh, no…”

“Good. This…brother…of hers shows up—practically raised her forever ago when she still lived on the streets—”

“Wait.” Wally threw up a hand. “If she had a brother, then why did you guys—?”

“He died,” Dick said, like it was an obvious statement of fact. Which, Wally could shrug it off, because it was _Gotham._ “But he came back as this…this _Talon—_ the Court’s special undead enforcers. And…he’s not really her _brother,_ so much as…” He sighed. “Anyway. They’ve been meeting for weeks, now. And that’s…that’s all she’ll tell me.”

“So… _not_ her brother.” Wally felt his brow furrow. “You don’t think they’re…?”

“Not a chance. She made _that_ pretty clear, at least.” Dick let out a dry, aborted huff of laughter. “But everything else? No, no, _that’s_ all off the table. Whatever it is, it’s giving her night terrors and  &*$%^#& _panic attacks,_ but I mean, _hey._ If she doesn’t want to share, that’s her business, right? Why should I… _why should I care_ if she’s ripping herself apart like this? I’m only—I’m just the only other person who’d ever _get it._ The only other person who…who loves her more than _anything,_ Wally. She just…she can’t just…”

Dick trailed off, and this time, Wally could tell. He _was_ crying.

“It’s less than a month to the anniversary,” Dick cried. “I can see what that’s doing to her. I can see what the _rest_ of it’s doing to her—but I don’t know what the rest _is,_ Wally! I don’t know how to fix it! We said we trusted each other…that we’d stick together no matter what, and then she…she doesn’t…”

Wally let him cry into his shirt.

Dick’s shoulders shook against him as his mind wandered off. His best pal had been drugged and… And he’d only found out through some $#!^^& tabloid he saw in the self-checkout at the supermarket down the street from his house. The others were upstairs with the idea that Dick had purposely done this, for one reason or another. And Barbara had the same idea. _Barbara—_ the one person besides Wally who should’ve had Dick’s back.

Yeah. Guilt didn’t even begin to touch on the feeling that was sweeping through him. Was there anything that went deeper than that?

He was angry, too. _Outraged._ At this Raya lady, at the circus people—basically Dick’s _family_ for &*%#’s sake!—and even at the reporter lady who’d broadcasted the whole mess to the entire world. But… Wally clenched and unclenched one fist, feeling his jaw do the same. Barbara should’ve _seen_ something wrong with him. GHB was…it had some nasty effects. Wally had picked up a few girls in Central City who’d been dosed by the same stuff. Got them home quickly before their dates or exes or that random stalker at the bar or whoever had their way. And he could always _tell_ that there was something wrong with them—could hear it in their slurred voices and see it in their glazy stares.

Then again, Wally supposed that if he’d caught Artemis with someone else, he…he’d _like_ to think that he’d have the presence of mind to slow down and analyze the situation. But as soon as that thought crossed his mind…he knew it wasn’t fair.

He’d be heartbroken in Barbara’s position. He’d be furious. Confused. Hurt. _He_ wouldn’t be able to see the forest for the trees, so how could he expect the same out of his friend?

Barbara was his friend, too, and she was probably going crazy out there, somewhere. Dick said she hadn’t come home. Said she probably wasn’t _going_ to.

“Have you tried calling her, yet?” Wally muttered into the top of his friend’s head.

“Y-yeah…yeah, I—she didn’t pick up.”

“Have you texted her?”

“St-steph tried to… but—”

“I’m sure she’s upset—and she’s justified.” Wally felt Dick stiffen in his arms, and hastily added, “But she doesn’t have the whole story. And that’s something we can fix right away. If you’re up for it.”

“I don’t…she’s not…” Dick swallowed hard. “She won’t want to talk, Wally. We’re broken up—”

“Did she say that?”

“She told Steph. Over text.”

Wally shook his head, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. “Babs isn’t the kind of girl to dump you over text, man. You guys both just need to sit down and have a serious conversation—”

“She’s mad, Wally. Like… _beyond_ mad.”

“How mad? On a scale of one to ten?”

“She called me ‘Richard’.”

“Oh.” Wally swallowed. “Well…$#!^. That’s…”

“A solid fifteen. So,” Dick muttered, pulling out of his friend’s embrace. He sat up, and wrapped his arms around his midsection, bending over a little as if he were physically sick. “I don’t think she’ll want to talk.”

“Then let’s call her. We can use my phone, and then—”

Dick gazed sadly up at Wally through his bangs, mouth pulled into a tight grimace. “She’s not answering any of us, Wall. When we text her, she’ll fire back with something short, but…” He sighed. Trailed a hand through his hair, before cupping his face. “It won’t work. This time…this time I &*%#^$ up too bad.”

“Hey.” Wally rounded on him. He glowered with enough heat that Dick flinched back a little. “ _You_ didn’t do a &*$# thing, do you understand me?”

Dick closed his eyes. “Wally…”

“No. You listen to me, man. Right now.” Wally gripped Dick’s shoulder tight—not enough to hurt, but just enough that Dick had to pay attention. The younger man’s eyes flew open, and he gaped up at Wally with wide eyes. But Wally plowed on. “You were taken advantage of by someone you trusted. You were drugged. You are _not_ responsible for what happened during that time. Barbara walked in on you two, without the full story, and reacted based on what she saw.”

Dick’s eyes were welling up. “But—”

“This. Is. _Not._ Your. Fault,” Wally snapped, eyes narrowing. “So don’t let me hear you say so _again,_ man. Okay?”

“I…okay.”

“Good.” Wally tapped Dick’s shoulder, then straightened. He craned his neck back to glance at Alfred. The old butler was still typing away at one of the keyboards, looking over something on a screen. More likely than not, they could get past him without making a scene. Even more likely, the old man’d just let them _go._

“So,” he told Dick. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to suit up. We’re going to go out and let you swing to your heart’s content. That always makes you feel better.”

Dick scowled. “Wally, I can’t. I feel like I got blasted by Count Vertigo—then hit by a train.”

“We’re going to go out,” Wally amended. “And I’ll carry you princess-style across town. Same thing, right?”

“Hh. Right.” Dick frowned as he looked away. His fingers tightened a little on the edges of the table, knuckles bulging. “Flash carrying Batman across Gotham like…hh. _That’ll_ really help my street cred.”

Wally knew for a fact that Dick Grayson died a little inside every time he put on his mentor’s cape and cowl. The first few weeks, he and Wally had patrolled together a few times, and all the guy could do was complain about the bulkiness of the armor, the weight of the cape. He rolled his eyes and claimed annoyance, but Wally could tell what was really going on in his head. He always could.

Dick _hated_ Batman. He’d never wanted the mantle in the first place, but now that it was his…

It should’ve gone to Barbara. From what Wally had heard through the grapevine, it _would have._ But the Joker’s bullet had changed everything. When Bruce died, Dick inherited the cowl, the symbol, and the whole &*#% _legacy._ It was either that, or let Gotham fall into complete chaos—the city needed a Batman.

Barbara would eventually get her mobility back, but Dick couldn’t escape the responsibility that’d been placed on his shoulders. The _weight_ of that responsibility—keeping a whole family, and a whole _city_ alive and well—crushed him a little more every single day.

Wally never had to deal with anything like that, and he never would. Barry was alive, for one thing. And even if that fact ever changed, there was another Flash already running around Central City to keep things in check. Along with Bart, and Jay, if they ever needed him.

Flash wasn’t a lynchpin in the fate of his city. But Batman _was_ , and that was a reality that Dick would never be able to escape.

So, when Wally spoke again, he softened his expression, his tone, his _everything._ The last thing Dick needed right now was another reminder of his own powerlessness. What he did need, in fact, was a reminder of the complete opposite.

“Hey, dude,” he said with a wry smile. “Who said anything about Batman?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

He never thought he’d wear the suit again.

Wally had helped him sneak out of the infirmary (read: picked him up and zoomed out) and plopped him down in front of the uniform cases. With a wink, he sped off to go grab his own suit—because unlike his mentor, the only ring Wally wore was his wedding band, and _that_ did not have the Flash uniform squeezed inside.

He left Dick standing in front of the Nightwing case, fingers splayed over the ice cold glass.

And he found himself shutting down, going on autopilot. Putting the suit on was all muscle memory. The slip of Kevlar on his bare skin, snapping the carbon fiber armor plates into place. The slide of the zipper, the pull of his gloves, click of his belt, snap of each buckle. He gave the sleek escrima sticks an experimental twirl between his fingers, then swung them. Dick reveled in the metallic _swish_ they made through the air, then slid them into the holsters on his back.

And then, he promptly burst into tears.

Wally found him on his knees, fists pressed to his eyes, and managed to coax him back to his feet. Then off they zoomed into the night.

Superspeed was a neat experience in that it made your insides feel like sloshing Jell-O, and it made your face peel back from your skull a little bit. Dick had hated the feeling for _years,_ but he’d never dared tell Wally. The hyper speedster had always loved picking him up and running off. During missions, during down days at Mount Justice, or whenever else the mood struck him. He couldn’t ever say anything without fear of offending the poor guy, and Dick didn’t say anything now.

When they stopped on the roof of a high-rise, Dick doubled over and emptied the rest of his stomach’s contents. That was all he really had to say.

“Eugh.” Wally grimaced, and took a step back. “Sorry, dude. Forgot about the nausea.”

‘Nausea’ was a pretty word for the ugly feelings churning around in Dick’s gut. Scraping the back of his glove over his lips, he straightened. Gulped down the bitter taste on his tongue. Then, he squinted at the skyline with critical eyes.

“This…isn’t Gotham,” he rasped.

“No…” Wally admitted.

Dick’s eyes fastened on the building across from them. Plate glass windows and steel. Smooth curves instead of hard edges.  So sleek, so _modern._ The style of the architecture was decidedly artistic—like it cared more about the aesthetic appeal than actual _function._ In Gotham, there were a few buildings like this, but for the most part, it was an old city made up of old bricks and stone. His gaze drifted down and over the edge of the roof to the street down below. He caught sight of a few hipster coffee shops and trendy restaurants that probably only served vegan cuisine, buttery light streaming from their windows and colors from their neon signs. The sidewalks were done up with black and gray bricks, forming a twisting and twirling mosaic pattern. There was a bronze-cast sculpture on practically every street corner in view. Features that were definitely a typical sight in—

“Cormorant,” Dick groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. _“Wally…”_

The Flash scratched absently at his nose. “Huh. Must’ve overshot…”

_“Wally.”_

“Okay! Guilty!” Wally zipped over to his side. He gestured wildly at the city before them. “Look, I stand by my previous statement—you guys need to _talk!_ And look! We’re here! Cormorant City. Home of the Birds of Prey! Oracle’s—”

“Stop.”

“No.” Wally jabbed at his shoulder. “You and me, pal? We’re gonna grab a burger or something—you’re feeling up to food, now, right? If not, man, just lemme know—and then we’re gonna go exploring. _If we happen_ to come across Babs, then great! We’ll sit her down, and spill the sitch, and you two can kiss and make up like nothing ever happened!”

Dick’s head twisted around, slowly. “Like nothing ever happened,” he repeated, his tone still and dead.

Wally’s eyes twitched wide, and he backpedaled quickly. “Wait, no. Dude. I’m so sorry. That’s not—I didn’t—”

“’S fine.” Dick bit the inside of his cheek, and stared down at his fist. Clenched his fingers together, then spread them apart. “I mean, I don’t really know what happened, do I? I was too drugged up. I was _stupid_ enough to take that drink and—”

“Dick,” Wally muttered softly. “I told you. It’s not—”

“—and either my childhood friend raped me or she didn’t. I’m not gonna know for sure until Alfred gets those tests back, but Wally, my money’s on the worst case scenario, here.” Dick stared out into the forest of skyscrapers. The windows were squares of light, like glitter, flashing through the darkness, and illuminating the city around them. He wasn’t completely sure, but Dick figured his heart must’ve stopped beating. “Worst case scenarios are kind of my thing.”

“Dick—”

His jaw clenched. “Don’t ask me to act like nothing happened, okay? This…all of this—it’s _humiliating.”_ Dick’s voice had dropped into a whisper hissed out through his teeth, and the sound of it made Wally go stock still at his side. “Do you have any idea…? This isn’t supposed to _happen_ to… And—I’m the big brother, man. I should be taking care of my family, and instead, Steph had to drag _me_ back home, because I was too out of it to drive myself. The rest of them had to play doctor while I was passed out on a  &*#% table. I’m the &*##*^% _Batman._ I should know better than to… and… I’m Barbara’s…I _was_ Barbara’s…I mean, _Wally._ I was _just about to propose,_ and _—_ ” He swallowed thickly. Closed his eyes for a moment to compose himself before he turned to stare his best friend in the eye. “You’re saying this isn’t my fault. Well, fine. Then find me the person who _did_ do this, and let me rip their &*#% head off.”

“You don’t think it was Raya.” It should have been a question, but coming from Wally, it didn’t sound like one.

“No,” Dick muttered bitterly. His thoughts filled with surgically neat words on a page, spelling out a name he thought he’d never see again—at least not outside of a cemetery. “No, I think it was someone else. Someone with a grudge and the means to _threaten_ Raya into doing it.”

“Dude…your eyes—they’re, uh—” Wally took a step back, pupils shrinking.

Dick smacked his temple, hitting the switch on the side of his domino that would activate the screens over his eyes. “They’re glowing again, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, th—wait, _again?”_

“Yeah. You could say it’s been an interesting month,” Dick deadpanned, lowering his hand to tap idly at his side. “I got kidnapped, shot, resurrected, roofied and _raped,_ man.” He laughed, but it was a dry, dead, bordering-on-hysterical sound that scared even him, a little. “How’s yours been?”

“Dick. I don’t—”

And that was when he saw it.

Saw _her._

His eyes caught the flash of gold, recognition flaring as they tracked the movement. The kind of recognition born out of nights— _countless_ nights—spent moving in sync and flying side by side in the dark. Dick knew it was her, without ever seeing her face, the symbol, or even the pair of bat ears spiking up from the cowl. All he _could_ see was the glint of her boots as she swung her legs, the glitter of the inside of her cape as it reflected the lights of the city.

He could feel his mouth run dry as she shot out another line, this time on the building across from theirs. Her movements were practiced, fluid as liquid mercury, as she streamed through the air, her arms outstretched like a ballet dancer’s. Head thrown back, her hair fluttered in the chill evening wind.

Batgirl flew gloriously. She passed them on the upswing, cape streaming, and rolled effortlessly onto the roof across from the pair. Dick couldn’t tear his eyes away as she brushed aside the cape, stepped lightly across the flat surface, and flicked her hair over one shoulder. It was all effortless, like she’d just slid out of a limo and onto a red carpet—instead of swinging on a wire through a sea of steel skyscrapers.

“You guys coming,” she called to the night, “Or are you too busy eating my dust?”

Two figures landed on the roof beside Batgirl, flanking her like dark columns. They stepped forward, into the light. Dick caught sight of Black Canary, and—

“Is that a Talon?” Wally whispered.

The man was dressed from the crown of his head to the toes of his boots in the same regalia as the creatures that had attacked Haly’s. Dick sent a silent nod Wally’s way, unwilling and unable to break the silence as he stared at the trio. Dina hip-checked Babs with a snort of laughter, and the Talon—Calvin Rose—rubbed his knuckles affectionately across the top of Batgirl’s cowl. She batted his hand away playfully.

“Nice work, you two.” Barbara turned her body, lips parted in half a laugh. “Maybe we should do this more oft—”

Her eyes locked on Dick’s.

Dick’s eyes locked on hers.

The city fell into silence around him, replaced with a strange stillness that he only ever experienced in the middle of a freefall. Barbara’s shell-shocked expression was enough to tell him that she was feeling something similar.

He expected her to glower. To shout or curse at him, spit in his direction, snarl out a warning to _back the #$%% off—_ but none of that happened.

“Dick?” Her voice cleared the chasm between them, tinged with something raw and wounded. He couldn’t see it from where he stood, but he was sure that her eyes were welling with tears—because his were doing the same. She wet her lips. “Dick, what are you—”

“Stay back, Babs,” Dina snarled, pressing herself in front of Batgirl. Her poisonous glare lived up to all of Dick’s expectations, and her words snapped through the air. “Get the #$%% out of here, womanizing &*%$#&!?#*&$!”

Wally cupped his hands around his mouth. “Babs! Hey! It’s not what you think, I swear!”

She frowned. Her head shook slightly. “What are you—?”

“Come on,” Talon urged her, grasping her shoulder in his large hand. “You don’t deserve this. Let’s leave now before—”

Barbara threw his hand off. “Cal, give me a second, okay?”

She turned back to Dick and Wally, her eyes narrowed, arms looping around her ribcage.

“I just want to know why!” she called to them. Called to _Dick_. “Can you at least tell me that?”

Dick swallowed hard. Opened his mouth to speak, but found that the words had dried up along with his tongue. The whole explanation—the explanation he owed her—left his mind like scattered papers blown away in the wind. All that was left was one thing.

“I would never—” he gasped. “Babs, I would _never—_ ”

The Talon moved fast. So fast that Dick didn’t even catch the movement until Rose had caught Barbara around the waist and hoisted her into the air. She was thrown haphazardly over his shoulder, shouting in indignation as he turned away. They watched her fists beat at his broad shoulders, mouth open as she bellowed a string of colorful protests. But Calvin Rose and Dina Lance were faster—and they leapt down the other side of the roof. Disappearing completely from view.

The two men fell into an uncomfortable silence. Cormorant’s cacophony returned with full blaring force. The sound of sirens and horns and chattering crowds hit their ears, and Dick was almost knocked to his knees.

Wally turned to him slowly. The speedster wet his lips, and asked, uncharacteristically slow,

“Dick, are you okay?”

Dick’s eyes never tore themselves away from the spot where Batgirl had just stood. He could feel the dam beginning to crack, tears trickling down his cheeks. He let out a shaky breath and met Wally’s concerned gaze.

“Take me home, Wally,” he gasped, voice breaking like glass, “Please. Just take me home.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_I would never._

Barbara toed the edge of the rooftop, staring down at her fist as she ran a thumb over her gloved knuckles.

Putting on her old uniform had been a visceral experience. It surprised her, just how much muscle memory came into play when working with the buckles, straps, latches and locks. There was something nostalgically comforting about stringing the metal links of her belt over her hips, and clasping her cowl into place. She’d…actually _missed_ the feel of a full cowl.

It wasn’t her battle armor—that was locked away in one of the Cave’s cases—but it was what she’d worn on casual patrol before…well, before the accident.

The last time she’d worn Batgirl had been Halloween night, and she’d taken it for granted. Hadn’t thought twice when she’d suited up that evening. How could she have guessed that it would be the last time she’d ever get to? Afterwards, she’d gone home to relax, enjoy a hard-earned night off, and read a book by the fire.

There’d been a knock on the library door. Thinking it was Alfred, she’d opened it.

But a predator had been waiting on the other side.

 _Don’t think about that,_ she chided herself, already forcing down the tidal wave of emotion _those_ memories stirred up. The pad of her thumb scraped across her knuckles, and she clenched her jaw tight. Instead, the echoes of laughter and screaming in her head were drowned out by Dick’s earnest plea, voice wrecked by tears of his own—

_Babs, I would never._

It was the same thing he’d tried to say last night. She wracked her brain, reluctantly dredging up all the painful recollections from those few minutes outside the Big Top. In her mind, she could see Dick’s bleary eyes, his staggered steps. The whites of his knuckles, clenched around a bedsheet, and the pull of his mouth as he pleaded.

There was…something ‘off’ about all of it…something that wasn’t…

“I’m sorry about that.”

Cal’s dry voice gave her a start, and she flinched violently. If not for the literal years of experience under her utility belt, she might’ve tipped over the edge completely. Instead, Barbara frowned. She turned her head slightly, side-eyeing the Talon as he stepped over.

The lights from the gaudy fountain pool down below lit him up in hues of faded yellow, and glinted off the metal pieces of his avian armor. After dragging her away from the Maddsen Memorial building and Dick’s mournful call, the trio had stopped here: the roof of some lavish hotel or another—the kind that only hosted foreign business moguls and the country’s top one percent. (Barbara was pretty sure Bruce had stayed here, at one point.) Her kicking and struggling hadn’t mattered; Cal’s grip was viselike. His strength was almost superhuman.

Cal and Dina gave her space to think in silence for a few moments, at least. They’d had to do that all evening—a burst of busted muggings and a crackdown on a weapons deal going down on the south end—and Barbara should’ve been grateful. She might’ve been, if it weren’t for the looks the other two kept on giving her.

They were doing it now, as Dina stepped up to the roof’s edge to stand alongside them. Sharing some silent, indecipherable glance. It was full of meaning that Barbara couldn’t even guess at.

But if it was pity, someone was getting kicked off a building tonight.

“You didn’t have to do it,” Barbara said flatly. Her eyes drifted down further, watching the burbling water of the hotel’s fountain. The shimmering, undulating waves were mesmerizing.

“Yeah, we did.” Dina nudged her a little. “Dressing up as Nightwing and stalking you in your own city? You should be _thanking_ us for getting you away from that two-faced creep!”

“ _Don’t,”_ Barbara snapped, head whipping up, “talk about him like that.”

Dina sneered. “Why? He _betrayed_ you, Babs. Took one look at another red-head and decided he’d rather have _her_ than _you,_ and then he just—”

“Stop, Dina.” Barbara’s voice cracked through the air like a lightning bolt, with twice the heat. Her chest rose and fell with labored breaths. Her eyes narrowed; so did Canary’s. The two women eyed each other like hawks circling above the same prey.

Barbara took a deep, dragging breath, and squared her shoulders. “You guys tried for hours to get me to badmouth him, and I didn’t give. I’m not starting now, okay?”

She reached down to her belt, and opened one of the compartments. Her fingers fished around a little frantically. There were a few flash pellets, and a loop of twine… Another flap, more pellets. A spare batarang… Another… Another… Another…

“What are you doing?” Dina demanded.

“I’m looking for my phone,” Barbara snapped, “To call my boyfriend.”

Calvin reeled, head swiveling on his neck in a way that was eerily similar to his organization’s namesake. “What for?”

“I…” Barbara went for another flap. “Look, I never gave him the chance to explain what happened. I should at least hear him out. He just—I owe him that much, after everything else, alright? &*#% it, _where is my phone?”_

As if on cue, a small beep chimed in the air.

All three of them stiffened, eyes snagging on the pocket of Dina’s leather jacket. The beep was the tell-tale chirp of a bird—the text tone Barbara used for her siblings. She could feel her eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. Her hand stretched out, slowly, palm up.

“Dina.” Her voice dripped with a venomous warning. “Give it.”

“I—” Dina took a slight step back. Then fumbled for the zipper. “Look, I just picked it up for safe keeping, okay? You’ve been getting angry messages all day, and I just wanted to—”

“Give,” Barbara snapped. “ _Now.”_

And again, Dina’s eyes flicked up to Calvin’s, full of some unreadable emotion that bordered on confusion and terror. But she drew the phone out of her pocket and handed it over. Barbara snatched it up, scowling, then glanced down at the screen.

**8 MISSED CALLS FROM ‘TIM POSSIBLE’**

**3 MISSED CALLS FROM ‘ARTEMIS’**

**11 MISSED CALLS FROM ‘WORLD’S BEST SISTER (HI BABS!!!)’**

**4 MISSED CALLS FROM ‘ZATANNA’**

**7 MISSED CALLS FROM ‘JAYBIRD’**

**12 MISSED CALLS FROM ‘KARATE KID (DON’T TELL DAMI I SWITCHED HIS N….’**

**1 MISSED CALL FROM ‘HUNK WONDER’**

**VOICE MAIL: 37**

“Oh my &*#,” she breathed. “ _Dina!”_

Dina crossed her arms tightly over her chest, scowling fit to scream. “I took it to protect you. You’ve been in pieces ever since you came to us, and I was _not_ about to let them—”

“Don’t.” Barbara snapped, and brought up her messages. Her eyes scrawled through the different texts the others had fired off at her—and apparently, _she’d responded to most of them._

Her mouth dropped open to give Dina a piece of her mind about _that._ But before she got the chance, Cal’s bronze-tipped fingers clasped over her hands, covering the phone’s screen. She could hear the gentle rumble of his voice as he said, “Dina, love, perhaps you should give us a moment.”

Dina’s face twisted into a snarl. “ _Perhaps_ I should—”

Then she stopped. Like someone had thrown a switch, her mouth snapped shut, and her back straightened, shoulders dropping. The change was unsettling, and Barbara felt an unexpected shiver flutter up the back of her neck, as she took in her friend’s slack expression and staring eyes. Calvin drew the phone out of Barbara’s grasping hands, and draped another set of claws over her shoulder. Gently, but firm enough to spin her away.

“Right,” Dina said, voice as hollow as a promise. Barbara could hear her pivot on one heel and stalk away.

She tried to turn her head back, to put a picture to the sound of Black Canary’s retreating footsteps, but Cal’s grip on her shoulder was too firm. He led her back to the edge of the roof. Helped her ease herself down onto the ledge next to him, until they were sitting practically shoulder to shoulder.

Barbara’s nerves were on edge, now, and she couldn’t have explained it if she tried. But as she looked at Calvin’s dark cowl, bronze frames and faux beak glittering in the lights of the city, and amber lenses pointed to the skyline, she tensed. The uncomfortable feeling creeping along her skin reminded her of the feel of fingernails scritching down a chalkboard. Staggered and squeaching.

Her hands rubbed along her arms.

“Cold?” Cal asked her. He turned his head, and she could see his harvest moon eyes peering at her through those gaping lenses.

“No. I just want my phone back.”

He started, blinking a little. But then he offered it to her on the palm of his hand, presenting it like a waiter with a platter of something delectable. “By all means. Apologies, Barbara.”

“Apologies,” Barbara repeated in a mumble. She never tore her eyes away from his as she took back the phone. It settled, ignored, in her lap as she frowned in her brother’s direction. Voice a little clearer, now, she demanded, “Why do you talk that way? Really?”

“Beg pardon?”

Her lips quirked down. “The Calvin Rose I knew didn’t talk like that. All ‘proper-like’. He would’ve laughed at words like ‘apologies’ or ‘pardon’ or…or…”

He chuffed a little in a half-laugh, and leaned back on his hands. The small scrape of his claws against the rooftop clinked in Barbara’s ears, and she felt another unexpected shiver prickle across her skin. “You’re right,” he admitted. “The person I was all those years ago never would have behaved the way I do now. I suppose...” His head tilted lazily on his neck. “I suppose I have the Court to blame for that.”

Barbara nibbled at her lower lip. Slowly, she matched Calvin’s posture, leaning back to rest her weight on the heels of her hands. Her shoulders rolled a little as she relaxed. Then, “You’ve never told me. What it was they did to you.”

“There’s a reason for that.”

“I know, but…” Barbara swallowed, and let her gaze roll up to the hazy evening sky. She wet her lips, then tried again. “I just want to know what it is I’m getting into, Cal. Please.”

He was watching her carefully. The gears seemed to be turning behind those wolf eyes of his—Barbara could almost hear the clicking of the cogs as they slid against each other. But then, unexpectedly, he reached up, and pulled at the crown of his cowl. It slipped off his head with a soft whish, letting his shaggy hair fall over his eyes, which he brushed away with a quick swipe of his talons.

“Torture,” he said simply.

Barbara swallowed her tongue. “I see.”

“There’s no polite way to put it.”

“I know.”

They both turned, staring out at the glimmering sea of light and sound. Cormorant really was a treat for the eyes, especially by night. Where Gotham was all sharp edges and hard brick, her city was streamlined and curving, shifting and swooping. Steel instead of stone, synthetic rock in place of granite or lime. Beautiful, in the way of modern progress.

“I can handle torture.” Barbara’s voice was low. “I have before.”

“This is…” Calvin straightened, the cloth of his uniform whispering softly as he shifted. He brought his hands close to his chest, and stared down at the sharp tips of the bronze claws. With an experimental clench of his fists, he tried again, “This is different. The Court aims to take their candidates and…and _break_ them, down to their bare components. Achieving that, they rebuild. Reshape. Whatever the Talon once was no longer matters—they become no one. They become everyone.”

Barbara tipped her chin down, frowning. “They didn’t break you.”

“You’re right.” The talons clinked a little as they slid together. “But I find that there are days when I wish they had.”

Barbara bit her lip, eyes falling shut.

In her lap, the phone chimed with a soft bird’s chirp.

Both sets of eyes fastened on the glowing screen, fixated on the name in neat black letters displayed there: **TIM POSSIBLE.**

And under that, the beginning of his message, which trailed off after the fifth word or so…

Barbara slid the phone into her palm, ignoring Calvin’s soft squawk of protest. Her thumb slipped across the screen, unlocking the phone so that she could read her younger brother’s message unhindered. It was painfully blunt.

 **TIM POSSIBLE –** you have to come home, Babs. There’s a lot you need to know

Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she typed her response.

 **BARBARA –** About Dick?

It took a few seconds. But a second message popped into being below hers.

 **TIM POSSIBLE –** hey. I’m glad you’re back

 **TIM POSSIBLE –** and yes, about Dick. But also…other stuff

 **BARBARA –** I’m

 **BARBARA –** I’m kind of in the middle of something right now, Timmy.

 **BARBARA –** But I’ll drop everything if you tell me right now.

 **TIM POSSIBLE –** not safe. They could be listening in

 **BARBARA –** Who?

 **TIM POSSIBLE –** exactly

 **TIM POSSIBLE –** just

For a few moments, Tim’s trio of shimmering dots was the only thing Barbara could focus on. Then,

 **TIM POSSIBLE –** dick was framed. We can explain it all if you’ll just come back to the manor

 **TIM POSSIBLE –** please, Babs

Her eyes locked onto those words until she could see them starkly when she closed her eyes.

_Babs, I would never…_

The nails-on-a-chalkboard feeling intensified, until it felt like someone was playing her nerves like viola strings. Barbara switched off the phone, waiting for the screen to go dark before she could see the reflection of Cal’s wolfish gaze on the surface. He was watching her face coldly.

“Who was that?”

Barbara swallowed, eyes still fastened on the screen. “My brother.”

Calvin straightened a little bit, shoulders rolling as they squared. “I see. Sorry to hear that. I wish that they would allow you a moment’s peace.”

“No, no, I’m…glad he reached out.”

“Mm.”

Barbara let her eyes narrow as she edged away from the Talon at her side. Her cape slithered across the roof’s surface, her fingers slid over the cold steel. “It’s just that…something came up. Family emergency. I’m sure you understand if I—”

The Talon’s claws seized her wrist—stopping Barbara short.

Her eyes flicked down to his fierce grip, then up to his face. She could feel her eyes go wide at his savage scowl. His mouth was turned down into a snarl. His eyes glowed like molten gold. And underneath his skin, the black veins seemed to darken and shift, flooding his pallor with inky spiderwebbed tendrils.

Barbara pulled against Talon’s grasp, to no avail. The bones in her wrist rubbed together, and she winced sharply.

“Cal—” she squeaked. “What—?”

“I’m afraid you’re not going home tonight, B-girl,” Calvin told her flatly.

Then— _there—_ a slight shift of his eyes to the side.

Barbara wrenched her arm up. Cal lurched, hauled forward, and a projectile sprouted from his back with a painfully sharp _schnick._ One second later, and it would have lodged in her throat. It was sharp and silvery, elegant, with a vial of sloshing orange liquid burbling at one end, likely flowing right into Cal’s black veins. Barbara’s head whipped around, and she stared right into the eye of a dark silhouette. It crept closer, taking its own lazy time, bootstep after bootstep thudding against the roof.

The city lights blanketed him in a soft glow once he’d breached the shadows. He was all burnished copper and void-like black, bristling with enough weapons to make Barbara’s breathing hitch.

“Well, Talon,” Slade Wilson chided, shaking his head with a click of his tongue. “Looks like our quarry’s not as easily distracted as you led me to believe.”

The man seemed to smirk behind his two-toned mask, and he slid the blowgun into a holster at his hip. _Snik._ Barbara didn’t dare twitch so much as a single muscle. Her eyes followed his hand as he reached up, over his shoulder, and drew out a sleek katana. The steel flashed like a grim reminder, and Barbara jerked to attention.

Talon was occupied with tearing the syringe from his flesh. So, ripping her arm from his grip was easier than she’d expected. Barbara jolted to her feet and dashed away from the edge. She spun, sparing Deathstroke a brief glance. Just in time to catch the fist he’d aimed at her face.

Barbara gave a sharp cry, cheek throbbing. Her body twisted, aiming her towards the fight.

Slade’s other arm slashed with the sword, and Barbara brought her gauntlet up sharply. The ridged edges caught the blade and stuck. They stood chest to chest, both breathing heavily as their arms strained from the force of the other’s push. Slade’s good eye narrowed.

“In the mood for a slow-dance tonight, sweetheart?” he rumbled, pushing harder. The edge of the blade shook, dipping mere inches away from Barbara’s cheek.

“I’m flattered, Slade,” she grunted, shoving upwards with as much force as she could muster. “But I’m a _terrible_ dancer.”

With unexpected strength, Slade shoved forward. Barbara stumbled back, arms waving. She just managed to regain her balance when Slade lunged again, sword raised. Barbara side-stepped the strike, ducking quickly to avoid the one aimed at her head. She slipped back and forth, dodging each swipe, each slice, each stab. Her footsteps stayed light. She kept her body moving.

Slade seemed to notice, as they edged closer and closer to the lip of the roof’s ledge. He tsked critically, and held his katana at attention. With a flourish, he sheathed it, and the metallic slip of the blade on leather slid through the air. “Not in a confrontational mood tonight? A pity.”

Barbara raised her fists. “I aim to disappoint.”

He stalked forward, hands clenched and swinging at his sides. Barbara took in his height, his musculature, his posture and his movements with a careful eye. She could feel her own body tense up in response; she was smaller and weaker in nearly every way. If he wanted to, Deathstroke could snap her like a toothpick and toss her over the side like she was nothing. She’s seen his stats; he was dangerously good at what he did.

But #$%% if she was going down tonight without kicking and screaming all the way.

“So _quiet_ tonight, aren’t we? What’s the matter, no clever quips for me?” Slade chided with a slight nod. He never paused in his slow advance. Barbara figured that he was taking his time because he _could._ She hadn’t given him a reason to hurry things up or put in the effort. Not yet, at least. He tipped his head to the side at a lazy angle. “I hear they usually can’t get you to shut up.”

Barbara eyed him carefully, letting her gaze slip between Slade and the Talon slowly rising to his feet not too far away.

Calvin straightened, flicking away the dripping projectile. He slipped the mask back over his head, and his slitted eyes glared out at her from behind the amber lenses.

She drew her focus back onto the assassin in front of her. “I tend to shut up when I’m thinking, boys. That’s all.”

“Barbara,” Cal snapped, talons outstretched in what was likely meant to be a placating gesture. Instead, he looked like an owl diving in for the kill. “Things don’t need to happen this way. Come with us, quietly, and—”

“Screw your way, Rose,” Slade interjected. He took another step forward, boot slamming down on the roof. “I’m not getting paid to hold her hand. Step aside, or—”

They were arguing, now. Perfect. Barbara inhaled a little, steeling herself, then took one last step back.

“—this was my mission!” Talon hissed. “We do things my way or we don’t—”

Barbara felt her heel connect with empty space. Hesitated. Then flipped open the grapple gun mounted in her gauntlet with a small clip of sound.

“She’s going to the Court in chains, Rose. Those were my instructions. If you can’t—wait. Wait, _hey!”_

Slade lunged forward, fingers grasping. Barbara danced out of his reach, then shot them a harried salute. “Like I said,” she gasped. “ _Thinking.”_

Her heels kicked off the edge with a powerful thrust. Barbara’s back arched, heels clicking together, her cape flapping. She dove backwards through the air, arms outstretched, fingers splayed, and she glided through the open space like she was just another gust of wind. There, then gone. Flying even as she fell.

Her reflection shivered in the glinting hotel windows as she swam down, down, _down._ Her heartbeat thundered in her eardrums, almost louder than the sound of the roaring air, and she let out a gasp. Her wrist jerked up sharply, and with a soft _puft,_ the line shot from her grapple, fastened on the building across the street. She yanked the line with all her strength, and felt herself rocket upwards, caught in the upswing.

 _Get away,_ she thought, mind scattering with urgency. _Be fast enough to—_

On her second swing, the slick _swish_ of a shuriken hit her ears. Before she could even open her mouth to cry out, it sliced clean through her line.

Barbara twisted her body through the free-fall, aiming for the side of the nearest skyscraper.

“Oh crap, oh crap, oh _crap,”_ she muttered, bracing her forearms over her face.

She crashed through a plate-glass window. Glass exploded inward, raining down on the shorn carpet as Barbara rolled into the eighteenth-story room. The pieces crackled and crunched beneath her as she pushed herself up to her forearms, and let out a soft, pained puff of air. Little stings covered her chin. Tiny diamond-like shards prickled from her gauntlets.

 _They’re coming,_ was all she could think. Barbara wobbled to her feet, and looked around the room.

A few employees were still puttering around, finishing up their evening shifts. They’d all stopped short, staring in open shock at the shaking girl before them. Barbara huffed. Ran a few fingers through her hair to dislodge the rest of the glass sprinkles. They pinged against the ground, and she swiped a hand through the air.

“Everyone out, _now.”_

A man in a nicer tie than the others—a manager, probably—tipped his chin up with a frown. “This isn’t Gotham, lady. We don’t—”

A pair of boots slammed into Barbara’s back. She cried out as she hit the floor again, rolling away fast before Slade could stomp back down. She flipped herself to her feet, and swept her cape aside as she stalked backwards. Never taking her eyes off the larger man.

Slade pulled a sleek black rod from another holster at his hip. With a twist, it let out a low buzzing hum. The tip glowed like a lit coal, and Barbara could feel her pupils shrink.

 _“Out!”_ she shrieked at the office workers.

The weapon in Slade’s hands went off. An arc of light blasted through a cubicle wall. The smoking hole revealed a quivering man with a comb-over, who promptly fainted. The others finally got the hint, and piercing screams splintered the air as footsteps thundered towards the door. Barbara spun her attention back to Deathstroke, side-leaping out of the way of another blast.

“You want me alive or vaporized?” she barked, dropping to avoid a blast to the face. The heat seared her eyebrows a little. Barbara rubbed at them as she pulled herself back up.

Slade snarled, and the weapon’s tip glowed anew.

Talon’s claws wrapped quickly around the barrel, and he jerked it down. Barbara wasn’t sure when he’d climbed into the office through the wreckage, but she had to appreciate his timing.  

“ _Alive_ ,” he growled at Deathstroke.

“You’re right,” Slade conceded. “But color me _annoyed.”_

He twisted the end of the rod, and the glow dimmed. But the instrument in his hands was still a threat. Deathstroke twirled it between his fingers, and Barbara could hear the balancing weights inside slide through the metal interior. Getting hit with that thing was going to _hurt._

She put up her fists and glowered. “Annoyed?” she clipped. “Just think how I feel.”

Deathstroke lunged.

He swiped at her head, and she twisted into a duck, leg swishing up towards his face. Slade blocked it with the staff, and thrust the point at her midsection. It forced her to hop backwards. But she swung back with a fist. To her surprise, it connected with his jaw, but she wasn’t about to stop and pat herself on the back. Slade’s head jerked to the side with a grunt. The staff whipped out and caught her in the ribs, and sudden pain bloomed, stinging like a thorn in her side. Barbara grit her teeth and pushed through it, her gauntlet blocking another swipe of Slade’s staff, and she flicked open a compartment in her belt. Time to bring out a few toys of her own.

A pellet rolled into her palm, and she didn’t pause to see what kind before she clapped it against the face of Slade’s mask. Ice exploded from the shell casing. It crackled as it sprouted from the taller man’s head in jagged crystals.

 _Huh,_ she thought vaguely. _Note to self—bring back some of the old goodies for Batwoman’s belt._

Slade staggered back, hands clawing at the shards. A growl of outrage leaked through, and Barbara spun just in time to avoid the sweep of Cal’s talons. They _snikked_ the edge of her cowl’s ears, and she whirled out of the way, dipping into a crouch. His base was too sturdy to attempt a leg sweep, so she pushed off on her hands, flinging herself into the air. Her boots cracked into the side of his face. She both felt and heard one of the mask’s lenses shatter below her heel.

Cal cried out, and swiped at her blindly. Barbara rolled out of the way, slipping soundlessly into the maze of cubicles. Low in a crouch, she side-stepped her way through the aisles, listening. She could hear Deathstroke and Talon thundering around the room, Slade probably still trying to unstick the ice from his mask. Cal would be more of a silent threat, and her eyes swept through the shadows in case she caught a glimpse of his gleaming claws.

She made it through the third aisle, then rolled inside one of the cubicles. Crouched under the desk, she could hear her own breathing stutter, chest quivering. Barbara brought a hand up to the side of her cowl, tapping the built-in comm link.

She tried for the Cave.

“This is Batwoman, calling in,” she hissed, as loud as she dared. “Requesting backup, Cormorant C—”

 _“This line has been disconnected,”_ a tinny voice announced in her ear.

&*#% it, she’d forgotten. The Batgirl uniform’s contacts were outdated—signals had been switched and updated and changed. There was no telling who she’d be able to reach in time.

She twisted the dial. Tried Dick, Tim, Selina, the Clocktower…

On the latter, the voice declared, _“This line has been blocked, please hold for—”_

 _Blocked?_ Barbara felt her heart stop. But she shook off the implications of that recorded statement, and opened up a general line. Anyone could listen in— _anyone._ It was a gamble. But it was one she was willing to take if it meant…

“Please, if anyone’s out there,” she gasped. “This is Barbara Delphi, requesting immediate backup. Hostiles closing in—armed and extremely dangerous. I _repeat,_ please— _gyah!”_

A hand flipped the desk, sending everything balanced on top flying and clattering through the deserted office. Barbara crawled backwards, gasping, as Talon and Deathstroke both stood above her, looming with the promise of bodily harm. She reached for her belt, but Talon was faster. His arm shot out, grasping her wrist in a bone-crunching grip.

“My, my, calling for help? We can’t have that, darling.” Slade chided, reaching for her. Barbara swung her leg up into the spot between his legs, and he flinched _hard_. Hard enough for her to spring up, tearing out of Calvin’s hold, and launching past them both.

She gasped and heaved for air, dashing through the aisles of desks and computers. There was an exit sign glowing softly up ahead, and she steered herself toward it. Gripped one of the cubicle walls, and flipped herself up and over, into the next aisle. She’d no sooner hit the floor in a crouch when a smatter of suppressed gunshots puffed through the air. Overhead, the hanging fluorescent lights crackled and shattered, raining down glittering glass and electrical sparks.

Barbara froze, heart hammering.

 _Not the time,_ she thought. _Not the place—keep going._

In a crouched run, she hurried through, doing her best to quiet her breathing and slow her heartrate. The latter was so fast, so pounding, that she wouldn’t have been surprised if Slade and Cal could hear it over the sound of their own pattering bootsteps.

She shot up, gripping another wall to flip over. But on the upswing, another snap blasted through the silence of the office. Like a searing hot spike, something pierced Barbara’s thigh.

She screamed. Fell, and rolled across the carpet. A shaking hand went down to the spot on her leg. Her golden glove came away streaked with scarlet, and her breathing stopped completely.

 _Get up._ Her bloody fingers squeezed into a fist. _Run._

Barbara’s hand slammed against the edge of a nearby desk. She pulled herself up, careful to settle her weight on the good leg, but a sharp cry still made it past her lips at the movement. A gloved hand slapped over her mouth, muffling her scream, and she realized with a sputtering gasp that it wasn’t hers.

Deathstroke dragged her backwards. Barbara’s shoulders pressed against his chest, and Slade brought out a sharp hunting knife. It slid across her throat, not enough to slice through the Kevlar, but enough that its presence was made known. She dragged in a breath through her nose, eyes rolling to catch a glimpse of the man holding her close. The pain in her leg made her vision jilt between clarity and bleariness, but her teeth clamped down on her own tongue to keep herself present and alert.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Deathstroke rumbled. She could feel the vibration of his voice buzzing in his chest.

Talon crept around the corner, feet sweeping silently over the carpet. It was eerie, how quietly he moved. And when he stopped, just a foot away from them, he reached out. Twisted the dial on Barbara’s cowl. Just a few clicks this way, a few clicks another, and the quick press of a button. The stays hissed a little as they released, and Barbara let out a cry as the mask was dragged off her head. Cal flung it away, and it bounced over the carpet, rolling out of sight.

Slade continued, hardly missing a beat. “But we can’t have you bringing anyone else to the party. I’m only getting paid to haul _your_ pretty #$$ to the Court. Anyone else…well. Let’s just say, this—” The knife disappeared, sheathed quickly, before he jabbed three fingers into the hole in her leg. Barbara’s eyes squeezed shut as she screamed through Slade’s fingers. A white-hot burst of pain made a twin set of tears leak past her eyelashes.

“—is enough bloodletting for tonight,” Slade breathed into her ear.

Barbara opened her eyes, glaring over at the Talon, who’d cocked his head curiously at Deathstroke.

“Then again,” Slade amended. “There is the matter of _witnesses.”_

The one eyebrow that was visible through Cal’s shattered mask twitched upwards in approval. He flicked his wrists. _Sh-snik._ Two gleaming bronze blades slid out over his knuckles, and he crossed them over his chest. “I saw three hiding in the room.”

 _“Mmhh,”_ Barbara squeaked, eyes widening.

“Take care of them,” Slade growled. “Then go after the rest.”

Barbara cried out. But Cal whirled, and streaked away, blades flashing behind him. He disappeared in the maze of cubicles, and Slade squeezed her closer. Barbara breathed heavily through her nose, listening for—

A piercing scream shattered the silence. It was sharply cut off.

There came a deafening crash. A female voice shrieked, _“No, PLEASE--!”_ Her gurgling gasp made Barbara’s hands drop limply to her sides.

The third victim was closer—she went limp as she heard the blood splatter across the wall, the man’s scream aborted before it could fully begin.

Cal marched back around the corner, blades swinging at his sides. Thick crimson trickles ran off the tips, dripping onto the carpet. He tipped his head to the side, and announced, “Witnesses have been eliminated.”

“Excellent work, Talon,” Slade said, suddenly monotone. It was as if he were reading from a script. “Now. The Court commands that you eliminate the rest.”

“As the Court commands.” Talon’s head dipped, and he raced off for the exit. Barbara stayed limp, silence ringing in her ears.

Slade shook her a little, and she let her head roll forward against his hand. For good measure, she allowed the lids of her eyes to fall shut. Let him think she’d blacked out from the pain. Let him think she’d fainted from the horrific final sounds of slaughtered innocents.

“Hn,” he breathed. “Easier than I thought.”

But her fingers had gone to her belt, closed around another pellet. She could feel the three grooves etched into the casing—it was a smoke capsule. And she had to make this one count.

Slade’s free hand dropped to his own belt. Barbara could hear the tingling jangle of handcuffs as they were drawn out, and her eyes flicked open.

Fast as lightning, she whirled. The capsule burst on Slade’s arm, and dense gray smoke burst out in an all-encompassing cloud. Barbara couldn’t see an inch of space in front of her—but neither could Deathstroke. She broke out of his grasp, planted a hand on one of his broad shoulders, and launched up. Pain made her nerves quiver, searing, but she pressed through. Planted her feet in his back, and caught him off balance. Slade staggered, crying out, and Barbara twirled through the air. On the landing, she whirled, and brought her boot up, slamming it against his jaw.

“ _Nnggh!”_ he cried. His hand swept through the smoke, clearing a few curling tendrils away. Barbara caught sight of his narrowed eyes, and he of hers, then they both launched forward.

They parried each other’s thrown fists easily, thrusting and batting and twisting and swinging. Their gauntlets cracked together. Their own growls drowned out the other’s. Barbara ducked, swung, landed a right hook across Slade’s jaw. Slade rolled with the blow, and brought his own fist up into her diaphragm. All of Barbara’s breath was knocked away. She opened her mouth in an attempt at a gasp, only just barely sweeping out of the reach of Slade’s next hook.

“ _There’s_ your fire!” Slade laughed. “Good for you!” He landed a fist in Barbara’s shoulder, and she cried out a little sharper than she meant.

He paused for half a beat, then seemed to smile, going for the spot again. Barbara twisted to guard her wounded shoulder, but he advanced too quickly. Seized it in one fist, and _squeezed._

Barbara’s knees buckled as she let out a piercing cry. The smoke had mostly dissipated, blown away by their movements, so she could see Slade standing above her. Pushing down with all he had into her tearing stitches.

Barbara’s vision was going white at the edges. _“Ah,_ ah,” she gasped, fingers clawing at Slade’s unrelenting grip.

“Oh, someone’s got a boo-boo,” Slade simpered. “Let’s have some fun with that, why don’t we?”

He squeezed impossibly hard, and Barbara’s eyes rolled up as she felt the shivering slip of the last few stiches tearing. The Kevlar that stretched over her shoulder entered the wound with another sharp press of Slade’s fingers, and she let out a clipped scream.

Whatever the man expected, though, he _didn’t_ count on Barbara’s sudden yank downwards. Slade stumbled, and Barbara tore out of his grasp. She rolled away, and landed a sharp kick with the heel of her boot, right into Slade’s crotch. A sharp crack reached her ears, as the man’s cup shattered. A real wheeze of pain leaked out of the assassin. He doubled over, limping backwards, and Barbara sprang to her feet.

The flare of agony in her leg almost sent her right back down. But she clapped a hand over the wound, doing her best to stem the bleeding, and staggered on. The exit sign was just a few feet away. Her free hand reached out, grasping for the handle. If she could just—

A telltale _click_ stopped her right in her tracks.

Barbara turned, slowly. Slade was hunched over, one arm supporting his weight against an overturned desk. His arm was ramrod straight. In his fist he grasped a gun, the curving barrel of the suppressor gleaming in the flickering fluorescent lights overhead. The weapon shook a little, but it was levelled directing at Barbara, never wavering.

“Slade,” Barbara warned, voice low. There was an edge of panic in her tone, and she took a half-step back. “Slade, _don’t—"_

“You know what,” Deathstroke growled. “Screw this.”

_POFFT._

 

* * *

 

 

She watched Barbara’s head snap back. Scarlet spattered the exit door in spurts and flecks, before it dripped down, down, down. And like a puppet whose strings had been snipped, Barbara followed. She collapsed backward in a heap, arms splaying, lips parted, blood-flecked eyes staring at oblivion.

An unexpected twinge needled at her heart, and she swept her attention to Deathstroke. The assassin pulled himself to his feet, staggering a little as his hand crept to the injured spot. A low growl of pain rumbled past his lips. And as his one good eye fixed on the shadows along the office’s edges, he spotted her deftly.

“A lot of help you were,” he wheezed, glowering. “Get out here, Cain.”

Cassandra stepped out of her hiding place.

And again, her eyes drifted to Barbara’s broken body. Death had been instantaneous, at least. That was some comfort—she hadn’t suffered. Cassandra could have delivered a swifter end, sparing her the sudden flash and heat of the bullet, but she supposed Barbara was beyond caring at this particular moment.  

Another figure appeared, throwing the door open as he flew into the room. But he pulled up sharply, golden irises roving over the scarlet drips that painted the door. Then his gaze trailed down, down, and landed on the sprawled corpse. Those unnatural eyes bulged, and he let out a sharp, keening cry.

 _“No,”_ Calvin Rose gasped. Growing louder, “No, no, _no no NO!”_

Talon was a fascinating creature. He almost always moved like a predator—sweeping movements with an agile gait. Strong, because he knew nothing else. Confident in himself, because anything contrary had been erased. And easily read, like a child or an animal. More, in fact, like the latter, because he moved as though instinct dictated his every gesture.

Usually, there was nothing there, behind the animalistic gait. His face—the window to anyone’s soul, in Cassandra’s opinion—merely moved in ways that it was programmed to do. It was like watching a machine. And android, perhaps.  There _was_ no soul in the Talon, Calvin Rose.

Not so, now.

He sank to his knees, shoulders pulling up into very human curves. His face—what little Cassandra could see of it—shifted with a thousand tics and expressions that she read off with precision. They all told her that the man was silently screaming, gazing back and forth over Barbara’s bloody face—at the trickle of blood streaming from the hole in her forehead, tracing down the bridge of her nose to her lips—searching for signs of life.

(He wouldn’t find any; Cassandra was well-versed in death, and recognized it like an old friend.)

Protectiveness laced through his posture, and remorse swam below his surface. Shaking hands hovered over Barbara’s still body, and for a moment, the creature almost seemed to display actual _humanity._  But then he twisted his head sharply, eyes glowing bright.

“&*$# you, Wilson!” he screeched. “I said, _alive!”_

Deathstroke ignored his shattered crotch guard, and limped forward. His footsteps dragged against the carpet—Barbara’s kick had injured him more than he was willing to show. The guard’s shattered edges may have even pierced—

“What have you _done?”_ Talon hissed through his teeth. “I was this close— _this close!—_ to sealing the deal! If you’d just stayed out of it…” His claws _shikked_ out, and he launched to his feet. A hyena guarding a kill now, rather than a wolf mourning a fallen member of the pack. The sudden shift was curious. But Cassandra couldn’t pretend she understood all of the nuances of Calvin Rose’s duality. He was not like the other Talons, nor was he unlike them, either—but instead seemed to be something settled right in between.

Deathstroke put a hand to his jaw, flexed it a little. Cassandra could hear it crackle, even from several feet away. It pained him greatly; she could see that much. But even more evident was his annoyance—the man was not used to being bested in combat. And he did not like resorting to lethal force on a kidnapping assignment, especially _after_ being bested. He’d told her once that he considered it cheating.

“The &!*^# got on my last nerve,” he growled, by way of excuse.

“The Grandmaster demanded she be delivered in _pristine condition,”_ Talon howled. Thrust a clawed hand down towards the body. _“_ Tell me, assassin, _does this look pristine to you!?”_

Deathstroke did not answer, only stepped forward to surveil the corpse for himself. He seemed curious—intrigued, even. He took in the color of her blood, the sprawl of her limbs, the glassy _nothing_ behind her eyes, all with the air of an expert in the art of killing. And she couldn’t fault him, completely. Cassandra knew enough about Gotham’s Bat Warriors to know that seeing one dead and shattered was a rare privilege. At least, it seemed to be, in the minds of the other assassins.

“Did you get the phone?” he asked, absently, eyes ticking over the bullet hole.

“Did I—? _Yes.”_ Talon pulled Barbara’s cellular device from the folds of his uniform, and held it aloft like a threat. “Picking her pocket was child’s play! But a _lot of good it does us, now!”_

Cassandra couldn’t tear her eyes from the woman’s bloody remains. Only a few hours before, Barbara had embraced her and offered her a place amongst her Gotham league—her _family_. Had offered Cassandra the chance to be a…sister. It was a word that Cassandra knew, intellectually, but one that she had little personal experience with. In the League, ‘sister’ was a word used to denote a female colleague, a formal address used in passing. But when Barbara had said it, then signed it for her, Cassandra knew that the word held a different— _deeper—_ meaning. Or, at least it had, to Barbara.

The woman had offered her place to stay, far away from the Demon’s Head and his assassins. Barbara had been so kind, so forgiving…would she forgive this, when all was said and done? Cassandra nibbled at her lip, eyes tearing up unexpectedly.

As if he could sense her sorrow, Deathstroke’s head whipped towards her position. He noted her stillness with an edge of irritation, and snapped his fingers as he pointed down at Barbara’s body.

“Cain,” he clipped out, “Come take care of it.”

Talon tensed—he would not be willing to let Cassandra anywhere near. Not that he would stand a chance if it did come to a fight; her nerve pinches were equally as effective on Talons as they were normal humans. She could see in his eyes that he knew his own resistance was futile. And yet, something that Cassandra _couldn’t_ identify seemed to spur him on.

_Curious, indeed._

“The Grandmaster will have your _head,”_ he bellowed, voice tinged with enough rage and anguish that it made Cassandra’s footsteps stagger a little with hesitation as she stepped forward. “You truly have no idea what you’ve done, do you?”

Deathstroke tsked, shaking his head, the very same one the warrior had just threatened. “Nothing that can’t be _un_ done, Big Bird. Trust me.”

Cassandra stooped, ignoring the Talon’s protective stance as she ducked below his arms. Her own slid beneath the backs of Barbara’s neck and knees. She lifted carefully, mindful of the way the older woman’s head rolled limply, and careful of the dead weight that a corpse presented. She turned towards Deathstroke, and nodded once, signaling readiness.

Then, she stared down at Barbara’s glassy eyes. They seemed to stare into Cassandra’s very _soul._ She decided that it was very off-putting to see a person frozen. It was _unnatural._ The last moment of terror was still present on the Bat woman’s features, as if carved there.

Deathstroke’s voice pulled Cassandra’s thoughts back to the present. “Our mutual partner has supplied me with the means to make sure that this—” He waved a hand towards the corpse. “—is a dance we can have again, and again, and _again,_ if necessary. So, relax; our agreement is still in force.”

Talon’s growl rumbled low in his chest. But his posture slid back, into something more defensive. Believing, but not yet trusting.

“The Grandmaster will have everything he’s been promised,” Deathstroke added. “Mark my words.”

Cassandra did, and it sent a shiver trailing up her spine.

 

 

 


	28. Infiltraitors

 

Getting home was easy. Sleeping was much harder.

Wally managed to help him sneak upstairs and into his room, avoiding detection from anyone else who might have still been lurking around the manor. Normally, Dick wouldn’t have even thought about turning in so early—it was only midnight—but every muscle in his body screamed at him to stop, drop, and pass the #$%% out. Add to that his spinning vision and throbbing head? Sleeping was something that _should_ have been easy.

But instead, it proved to be well-nigh impossible.

His own sheets felt foreign against his skin. The pillows were all wrong, the mattress too stiff, making blooms of throbbing pain blossom wherever he touched the bed. Shoulders, elbows, neck—burning with a pain that had him shaking.

Worst of all was when Dick did manage to drift off, his body’s exhaustion finally winning out over its own discomfort. Because he’d turn in his sleep, expecting to feel another body pressed close to his own. His arms would sweep across the sheets, searching for soft hair or warm skin, but finding only cold, empty linen instead.

He jerked awake a little after three, blinking in the darkness after a nightmare filled with gunshots and streaking blood.

“Babs,” he whispered dryly to the air. “Babs, are you—?”

Again, Dick found himself adrift in an empty bed. And he curled in on himself tightly, feeling a hollow scrape in his chest.

Something was wrong. Something _felt_ wrong—even worse than everything that’d happened in the last two days, even worse than Raya’s betrayal and the name of his cousin in the Talon file. Dick couldn’t have explained it if he tried; all he could do was stare at the ceiling with a swoop of inexplicable dread dancing in the pit of his stomach.

But, sometime during all of the tossing, turning, and early-morning contemplation, Dick _did_ sleep.

He had to have, because he woke up to Wally’s hand shaking his shoulder a little after ten.

Dick squeezed out a groan, rolling to squint up at the ginger speedster with an accusation already twisting at his features. Wally saw his face, and let out a nervous laugh. His hands flew up into the air as a gesture of self-proclaimed innocence, and he said, “Hey, man. Good morning?”

Dick scraped his tongue across the papery-dry roof of his mouth. “I will end you,” he rasped. “If you don’t give me five more minutes.”

“Dude. I let you sleep in as long as I could.” Wally nodded to the alarm clock on his bedside table. Dick’s eyes were _way_ too fuzzy to make out the numbers, but he decided to take the speedster’s word for it. Wally smiled as Dick sat up with a tiny groan. “How you feeling, buddy?”

“Like $#!^…”

“Awesome. Cause Alf made pancakes, and you’re not gonna want to wait too much longer.” Wally chuckled. “I’ve done my best to manage the hungry hordes, down there, but I think it’s gonna be a losing battle. We don’t get you down there asap, there’ll be nothing left.”

“Hungry hordes…” Dick dragged his fingers over his eyes and winced.

“Yeah. We all kinda stayed the night. Hope that’s okay?”

He shrugged, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.  “Nn…yeah. ‘S fine. Just think it’s funny for you to call _them_ the ‘hungry hordes’ when we both know you can pack in more of Alf’s pancakes than anybody.”

“Agh, _zing!”_ Wally chuckled. He laid a hand on Dick’s back, helping him to stumble over to the closet.

Flipping the bifold doors open revealed a stunning shortage of clothes. Stunning, that is, to Wally. Dick wasn’t surprised; most of his stuff had been moved to Babs’s closet months ago, and he only ever really came in here when the fancy struck him (or when he ran out of clean shirts). But, from the limited selection, they chose out a faded old NASA tee and a pair of jeans with a hole in the left knee.

Dick ran a hand through his scruffy bedhead and called it good.

Going down the stairs was harder than he would’ve expected, but Wally helped him through it, wincing sympathetically at every pained hiss or flinch that escaped through Dick’s clenched teeth.

And they heard the noise in the kitchen before they ever saw the occupants.

_“Ti-gress! Ti-gress! Ti-gress!”_

_“Hood, Hood, Hood, Hood, Hood, Hood!”_

Dick could hear the chanting reverberate off the walls of the hallway, and winced a little, his headache making a pounding comeback. As they neared the kitchen, the howls and bellows only got louder. A few cheers and moans were interspersed through the shouting, and when Wally and Dick rounded the corner, they got a full-on look at the cause of the cacophony.

Jason and Artemis were seated across from each other at the kitchen table, bodies leaned over the edges. Their elbows scraped across the polished surface, muscles straining, as their clasped hands shook between them. The rest of the Bats and the Team gathered around, watching rivetedly. Their hands either pounding the tabletop or carding through their hair as they cheered for their respective champion.

Jason was panting through his teeth, eyes murderous as he stared down his opponent.  Artemis had a tight clench to her jaw, but seemed otherwise unperturbed. If anything, the thin smirk curling up her face was more than enough proof that she was _thoroughly_ enjoying this.

“Kick his #$$, sis,” Roy sneered, leaning over Artemis’s shoulder with narrowed eyes.

Stephanie was crouched at Jason’s side, egging him on. “Just look at Wilbur’s face over there, Jay. You gonna stand for that? Gonna let flippin’ Tigger win? Come on, Jay. _Come on.”_

Artemis’s hand tilted slightly to the side, and the Team leaned in closer.

“Give ‘em #$%%, ‘Mis!” Roquelle hissed.

“If they win, they’re never gonna let us hear the end of it!” Zatanna cried.

“Master Jason,” Alfred’s calm voice cut through the others’ like a warm knife through a pad of butter as he announced, “If you don’t end this in the next minute or so, the next batch of pancakes will burn, and you will all have to wait for me to start another.”

At this, everyone’s screaming intensified.

“You hear that!? Don’t let her win, Jay!”

“Artie, I love you, but I _will_ us my telekinesis to end this fight—”

Tigress let out one last roar, and slammed her fist _down._ Jason’s knuckles scraped against the tabletop. The Team members exploded, jumping back with their hands in the air as they let out a collective whoop. (Except for Kaldur, who only nodded, as if he’d expected nothing less.) Stephanie groaned, and smacked her forehead against the edge of the table. She fished around in her pocket, muttering something incoherently. Damian scoffed, and stalked over to the stove to assess the condition of their breakfast, with Alfred hot on his heels.

Jason, though, was smirking over at his opponent. He offered her a closed fist. “Nice.”

“Huh.” Artemis cocked her head, matching his toothy grin. “Way to be a good sport, Jaybird.”

She rapped her knuckles against his, and they both pushed out their chairs.

“Here,” Stephanie moaned, hand shooting up in the air. A twenty-dollar bill waved from her fingers like a white flag as she offered it to Roy. “You win, Wilfred. Go buy yourself a name change.”

Roy snatched up the bill with a scowl. “It’s _Will._ And I already—”

“I mean, I can’t blame ya.” Steph raised her head, and her expression was _so_ filled with sympathy, that it absolutely had to be fake. “If I had a name like Roybert, I’d do anything to scrub _that_ one off the public record—”

“No, it was _Roy—”_

“—though Willickers _doesn’t_ strike me as much of an improvement, does it Billiam?”

Roy turned to M’gann with a look fit to murder and hissed, “Name your price. _Anything.”_

Miss Martian let out a heavy sigh, letting her eyes flutter up to the ceiling. With a tired, frustrated pinch in her tone, she said, “I’m not wiping anyone’s minds, Will. We’ve already had this conversation.”

“ _Several_ times,” Zatanna chimed in, leaning around Roquelle. “Same goes for me, by the way. It’s just what you get for going with ‘Will’ instead of ‘Armando’, like _I_ suggested. ‘Armando Harper’ has such a sophisticated ring to it, don’t you think? And I doubt even Batgirl could make fun of it.”

“Oh-ho, _I_ beg to differ.” Steph chortled, and held up a finger. “One, we’ve got _Arm-_ mando—”

Jason snorted. “Steph. _Too soon.”_

“Ohhh. Right. Sorry, Bill-bo, I forgot.” Then, she gasped, out, “ _Armandillo!”_

Roy’s eyes went wide. The man looked as though he was about to have an aneurism, so Dick chose that moment to clear his throat and step into the dining room. “What are you guys talking about? Who’s Will?”

Artemis shrugged, waving a dismissive hand. “Ah, it’s just that Roy got tired of being confused with original Roy, so he got his name legally changed to Will, even though the rest of us made a few much more _original_ suggestions…”

Roy—or Will, apparently—snorted.

“But that’s all it is, Dick,” she concluded. A note of silence hung in the air for three or four seconds, then her eyes shot open impossibly wide. _“Dick!”_

Everyone started, and rushed forward, shouting his name. Before Dick even fully knew what was happening, he was being crushed under the weight of a group of meta-humans, Bats, Archers, and one very loving butler. He wheezed a little, as he felt his ribs contract. His eyes searched for Wally, and pinned him over by Artemis, hugging one of his arms.

“Wally,” he gasped, “Help—”

The speedster let out a laugh. “Alright, alright, everybody. Let ‘im breathe.”

The others released him with obvious reluctance. Dick’s chest stuttered as air rushed back into his lungs, and he rested a hand on his sternum. He glanced around the room at his friends and family members, who were all gazing at him with concern and sympathy.

“Alfred told us what happened, Dick,” M’gann said, suddenly teary. “We have no idea what you must be feeling right now—well, I mean, I sort of do, but that’s not the point—”

“How can we help, buddy?” Will clapped a hand on his shoulder, brow furrowing. “You name it, and we’ll get it done.”

Everyone else chimed in, and Dick shook his head at the noise, reeling. He held up a hand, letting his eyes fall shut, and the others quieted down. Waiting for him to gather himself before he spoke.

When Dick finally opened his eyes and looked up, he asked, “Where’re Tim and SB?”

“Really? _That’s_ the first thing he says?” Roquelle muttered, then yelped, as Zatanna planted an elbow in her side.

“Tim’s down in the Cave,” the magician explained with a small smile, “and Conner went looking for a bathroom about an hour ago, but nobody’s seen him since.”

“Probably got lost.” Jason shrugged, pursing his lips. “I mean, he wouldn’t be the first…”

Conner must’ve taken that as his cue; through the ceiling came a muffled shout, _“Why the #$%% are there so many doors!?”_

Everyone’s eyes widened, then a surprised, collective laugh bubbled out of their throats. Wally tipped back his head, Jason’s shoulders shook, and Roquelle looked like she was ready to burst. Their laughter only intensified when, a moment later, Conner’s soft scream of rage filtered through the floorboards.

M’gann gasped, still in the throes of snickering, “I should…I should go help him.”

Her eyes glowed green, and her form shimmered, going intangible. She levitated upward, right through the ceiling.

For a moment, no one said anything. A few chuckles huffed through the quiet, as everyone did their best to recover. But then, Dick asked, “And Tim? Why is he in the Cave?”

Artemis held out her hands. “We were talking about the good ol’ days. Missions, exploits, shenanigans, et cetera. Someone brought up the Light Summit—remember that one?—and he just…took off. Don’t know how else to explain it, but…yeah.”

Dick frowned. “But why would he—?”

“I am pleased to announce,” Alfred said, stepping over with hands clasped in front of him. “That the next batch of pancakes is ready for all of you to devour. If you please, kindly refrain from inhaling these like you did the last round, otherwise I will need to send someone to the supermarket for more ingredients. Thank you.”

The attention in the room shifted quickly from Dick Grayson to the large plates piled high with steaming pancakes. A literal stampede thundered through the kitchen, and Dick couldn’t help but quirk a smile as he was carried along with everyone else. Someone passed him a plate, someone else a set of utensils, and Alfred hurried to place three flapjacks on his plate. Wally helped him out by snagging the syrup bottle from his wife (ignoring her cry of protest), and drizzling a stream over his plate. Before Dick knew it, he’d been seated at the counter, and with a shrug, he tucked into his pancakes.

The food was warm and sweet, and left a satisfied feeling in the pit of his stomach as he ate his way through one helping, then another, then another. Alfred’s secret ingredient in his pancakes was mayonnaise, which gave them a lighter, fluffy cloud texture. Weird, maybe, but _delicious._

He swallowed hard after his third helping, then looked up at the others with a widening grin. The Team knew how to eat—metas usually had faster metabolisms than regular people, but the Bats could keep up with the best of ‘em—and were inhaling their pancakes with grateful mania. Forks and knives clinked against the glass plates, and soft moans of delight huffed through the air.

Dick waved his knife in Will’s direction and snorted. “So. Will. Like…William Tell?”

Roy groaned around a mouthful of food. “ _Nnnff!”_

 

 

* * *

 

 _‘I’m such an idiot,’_ Tim thought as he slid down the hall, and into the elevator. His toes tapped against the floor in a percussive rush until the doors dinged open. And he ran into the Cave, breaking into a full-on sprint.

He passed the Batmobile. He passed the Batcomputer, and the display cases, and the training rooms, and the infirmary and the locker rooms, and the showers, and the—

Tim skidded to a stop at the furthermost end of the BatCave, chest heaving with desperate gasps for breath, and he leaned against the doorframe for support. Heart jackhammering in his chest. Lungs burning. Mind whirling.

He was staring into one of the most hallowed rooms in the entire Cave. It was dark, almost pitch black, save for a few lights lining several walkways, and four pillars of soft radiance, glowing crisp and white in the darkness. The room’s atmosphere was deep and hollow, like the expanse of outer space—its depth threatened to swallow a person whole. Tim swallowed hard, and padded silently forward. He let the sound of his footsteps against the cold tile floor remind him of his own corporeality in this otherworldly place. The only other sound was his breathing, which seemed to echo too-close around him.

The four pillars in front of him were actually glass cases. Alfred religiously kept them free of dust or smudges, so they shone like pure crystal. They were stoic monoliths. Glorified gravestones. And each was specified with a unique nameplate, cast in stainless steel with solemn black letters etched in, deep. Quietly announcing the contents of each case.

Inside the first was a battered uniform that was nearly unrecognizable. A broken corpse set out on grim display. Its streaks of red and gold flashed colorful against its crystalline surroundings, and a tattered, slashed black cape hung limp from the shoulders. Shredded boots and gloves were held in their respective places by transparent glass stands, along with a torn domino mask. So it looked as though the Robin Costume 2.0 was standing at attention, worn by some silent, unseen phantom trapped inside the glass. The steel plate on the front read:

**JASON PETER TODD**

**ROBIN**

**K.I.A., QUARAC MISSION**

The second case held another Robin costume, but this one seemed untouched. Almost brand new. And unlike the first, definitely fitted for a girl’s form. It stood silent, staring out at the empty expanse of the Memorial Room with indifference, like a playacting costume waiting for someone to bring it out for a one-night only production of Robin Hood. Its owner hadn’t died in it, and Bruce almost hadn’t erected the shrine at all. It had taken severe scolding from Dick and Alfred, and a screaming match with Barbara, to convince the man that his fourth Robin deserved a place of honor, even if she had only worn the cape for a few short weeks.

**STEPHANIE BROWN**

**ROBIN**

**K.I.A., GOTHAM CITY GANG WAR**

Tim hesitated at the third case. Like the other three, it honored a fallen family member, but unlike them, its contents mourned a moniker, rather than the person who’d used it. The original Batgirl costume—the one Barbara had worn as a pre-teen just starting out—stood at attention in the case’s interior. It looked tiny, compared to the Batwoman uniform she wore now. Tim often wondered if Bruce had chosen this model because of its nostalgic value—Barbara had been his little girl, and this was the first armor she’d ever worn.

She’d insisted on keeping the last model at the Clocktower in Cormorant, though, and had tried convincing Bruce not to erect a memorial in her name at the Cave. Tim vaguely remembered that argument; Barbara had insisted there wasn’t a need, since she wasn’t dead. But Bruce wasn’t having it—she’d lost the ability to wear the cape and cowl, and as far as he was concerned, that was enough for him, and everyone else.

**BARBARA**

**BATGIRL**

**W.I.A., OCTOBER 31, WAYNE MANOR**

But it was the final case—the largest one on the end—that Tim had come for. He nearly swallowed his tongue as he came to a stop in front of it, gazing reverently up at the armored uniform inside. It was cold and commanding and so, so dark against the blinding light. A grim phantom floating in a halo of brightness. The contrast was striking, and Tim couldn’t have torn his eyes away if he tried. The surface was battered and scarred, but almost all of their suits were. Just a side-effect of their nocturnal lifestyle.

And his eyes locked onto the bullet hole squarely in the center of the metallic insignia over the heart.

**BRUCE WAYNE**

**BATMAN**

**K.I.A., JOKER ‘DEATH OF FAMILY’ MISSION**

Dick and Barbara had built the memorial a few days after Bruce’s funeral. For the first few months after he’d been killed, it wasn’t rare to find a sibling curled up at the memorial’s base. Sometimes Alfred would step in to drape a blanket over their shoulders if they’d fallen asleep. Sometimes he’d come in to offer a hug or an escort back up to bed. Other times, though, he knew to stay outside, letting whoever had wandered into the Memorial Hall have their time with Bruce, uninterrupted.

Tim had logged many hours down here, himself. Sometimes he’d fiddle with a gadget or tricky string of code, feeling watched-over by Bruce’s empty uniform. At others, he’d sit staring up at the bullet hole, guessing and speculating to keep the needling sense of guilt away. And to chase away the stabbing ache in his chest at the sight of his mentor’s nameplate, stark as a headstone, he thought of all the ways Bruce could have _survived._

And he’d never even considered, not once, the possibility that was staring him in the face, now.

The hollow eyes of the cowl gazed down at Tim, unwavering. Almost as if it were chiding him for being so blind.

After all, shouldn’t it have been obvious?

Tim’s hand moved of its own volition, and pressed against the front panel of the case. With a click, it opened, and the panel swung out. Now free to rifle, Tim searched through the utility belt desperately.  Feeling all the while as if he was robbing his own father’s grave.

They’d left his suit untouched. No one wanted to take anything from it. No one wanted to buff out the dents or do anything more than clean off the blood before setting it on mournful display. And so, Tim shuffled through batarangs, smoke bombs, flash pellets, grenades, lockpicks, tracking chips—everything Batman had at his disposal was inside those metal compartments. For a few minutes— _heart-wrenching_ minutes—Tim thought that his search would yield no result.

But just when he thought he’d end up empty-handed—his fingers brushed something cold, and small, and metallic. With a shaking hand, and a hammering heartbeat, Tim drew the object out into the light—

And a single, shining, nine-millimeter bullet rolled in the palm of his hand.

Tim’s heart stopped.

A bullet from the gun that had killed Bruce Wayne was _right there._ But it was perfect—unfragmented, unbroken, unmarked—in every way. Like it had just been removed from the box. Or from the chamber.

This bullet had not been shot out of a gun.

Tim could still remember Bruce’s cold, even tone as he removed every last round from the revolver Joker had shoved into his hands. Laid them out in a row on the table with captivating _clink, clink, clink_ ’s. Then picked one up, and held it aloft. _‘I trust you’re familiar with Russian Roulette’?_

It had been a game—a sick game—that the Joker had devised. He’d given Bruce the gun, and waved a hand at his partners and protégé’s, all tied up in a line. Pick one to shoot, he’d announced, or Joker would kill them all. The Batman’s soul, or his family; he was free to choose.

And Bruce had flipped the script on its head. Placed a single bullet in the revolver, gave it a spin, and told the Joker that he was going to pull the trigger. If it went off, then he’d step over the clown’s body and take his family home. If not, then Joker would get a chance to kill him.

Bruce claimed that he hadn’t known which chamber the bullet had been in.

Tim thought back to the inciting story that had sent him scrambling down here. Artemis had regaled them all with the account of the Light Summit. She and Kaldur had infiltrated the ranks of the enemy, then exposed them to their extraterrestrial partners, before faking their own deaths. The means of their own pretended demises? False bullets filled with fake blood, with outer shells thick enough to pierce their armor _just_ barely, and just thin enough to burst on impact.

Also mentioned was Artemis’s other faked death—and the pill she’d snapped open with her teeth moments after Aqualad had pretended to stab her. It had been filled with a chemical cocktail that had sent her into metabolic stasis—meaning no pulse, no heartbeat. She’d essentially been in a coma.

What if Batman had pulled the same thing?

Yes. Bruce had claimed that he hadn’t know which chamber the bullet had been in. But Tim called bull$#!^. Bruce had been a master of predictive statistics and probability. He had to have known.

Simple sleight of hand would have sufficed to switch out the real bullet for a false one. After Joker pulled the trigger and shot Batman with the pellet of fake blood—maybe even _real_ blood; Tim wouldn’t put that past his mentor—he could have popped a pill just like the one Tigress had described. So that when they’d escaped their bonds and rushed to their father’s side, the Bats would have found no pulse, no heartbeat, and no sign of life.

When the drug wore off, Bruce would climb out of his grave. And then…what, exactly?

Barbara’s words flashed in his mind. The ones she’d said with a reluctant, pursed frown almost every time Tim went off on a tirade about Bruce’s possible survival.

_I don’t want to say this, Timmy. But…he can’t be. He wouldn’t just leave us, unless he was gone for good._

But he wasn’t.

Bruce was _alive._ He had to be—this _proved it._

Tim had to tell the others.

 

 

* * *

 

 

But of course, as luck would have it, he never got the chance.

The second he stepped out from behind the old grandfather clock, the doorbell dinged. And, because Tim was just leaving the Cave, that put him closest to the front door.

“I’ll get it!” he announced wearily, hurrying forward to grasp the handle. Whoever it was—a reporter, salesman, mailman, pizza delivery guy, or the local troupe of Girl Scouts with a clipboard of order forms for their cookie sales—Tim wasn’t in the mood to see them. And neither, he supposed, was Alfred.

“Master Timothy!” he called from the dining room with an obvious tinge of relief. “Thank goodness! Master Dick was just about to send a search party down to make certain you hadn’t been carried away by the bats.”

Tim’s thumb pressed down on the latch. “Dick’s up?” he shot back, letting the hopeful note in his tone ring out. If his older brother was out of bed, that meant he was probably feeling much better by now, right? Probably even well enough to hear about—

The door swung open. As it would turn out, it wasn’t the mailman, or a nosy reporter, _or_ a gaggle of Girl Scouts.

Five women stood shoulder to shoulder on the front stoop, their thickly muscled arms crossed over their chests. Each and every one of them looked strong enough to snap Tim like a dry twig, and just from the way that they held themselves, he could tell they knew it. (And might actually be considering it.)

Even without the uniforms, Tim would have recognized them, but he appreciated the visual shortcut—Black Canary stood front and center, flanked by Dove and Starling, with Lady Blackhawk and Barda on either side of them.

Their eyes zeroed in on him like a group of circling falcons spotting a mouse, which left him wondering which one would dive in first.

A rodent would have turned tail and scurried out of there. But Tim stood firm, fingers squeezing around the edge of the door. He did his best to match their solemn expressions, but he could tell that it fell flat.

“Um…can I help you?” he deadpanned.

Lady Blackhawk’s face lost one hundred percent of its righteous fury, giving way to a beaming grin that put the afternoon sun to shame.

“TimTim!” she squealed, shooting forward like a cannonball. Tim choked out a sound halfway between a grunt and a gasp as her arms wrapped themselves around him like steel beams. His face was pressed into the leather of her army jacket, squashing his nose, and his eyes bugged out when he realized that breathing was a thing that had suddenly stopped being an option.

“You’ve gotten so _big!”_ Zinda squealed, squeezing him (and yes, it was possible) even harder. “Finally hit that growth spurt, huh, sugar pie? I _told_ you it’d happen if you just started drinkin’ your milk. _And_ gettin’ enough sleep—I know you like to burn that midnight oil, but by golly, it’ll stunt your growth like nothin’ else, let me tell you—”

“Zinda.” Dina’s voice clipped off Lady Blackhawk’s next words like a pair of scissors. She dropped Tim and took an apologetic half-step backwards.

Tim was too busy trying to re-inflate his lungs to pay much attention to Dina’s sharp chastisement. Lady Blackhawk could only bob her head and quirk a frown.

Then, Tim noticed that Dina Lance’s razor-like gaze was on him. That falcon-mouse analogy was beginning to feel a heck of a lot more fitting. With a stiff raise of one eyebrow, Dina sneered down at him and said,

“Move aside, boy wonder. We’re here for Barbara’s stuff.”

Hand pressed to his ribcage, he straightened. “I’m sorry?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I _said—”_

“Heard you loud and clear.”

Artemis’s dry voice made everyone’s heads snap to the side. Tigress leaned against the doorframe that led to the living room, and had a look on her face that was sharper than frostbite. She pushed off the wood and stalked forwards, eyes narrowed. The cat hunting the bird, ready to leap up and snatch it from the air.

But this particular bird was unimpressed. Dina put a hand on her hip and her sneer returned full-force. “Mm-hm. Good. Then step aside, Tigger. We’ve got stuff to do, and stuff to grab.”

Artemis bristled visibly, and Tim took a slight step back (just to be safe).

“What kind of stuff?” she growled.

“Clothes. Her laptop. Toiletries.” Dina leaned forward, speaking slowly. “Et-cet-er-a.”

“Oh, okay.” Artemis’s eyebrows twitched up. “But, last I checked? Babs is a big girl. If she wants her toothbrush, she can come get it herself.”

“You’re totally right, sweetie, but Babs isn’t exactly in the right state of mind to be grabbing anything just now. So, she asked _us—_ ” Canary stepped forwards, coming nose to nose with the Tigress. “—her _actual_ friends, to come grab it instead. You know— _us._ The people she came crying to when that %&$#-boy of a Bat tossed her out.”

Tigress glowered, baring her teeth in a snarl.

And Canary smirked. “But, I’m sorry. Who are you, again?”

With a sharp inhale through her nose, Artemis surged forward. Probably ready to scoop Dina’s eyes out with her fingernails. But at the last second, a hand snagged her arm, holding her in place. Tim turned his head quickly, looking at the stone-cold frown on Wally West’s face.

“Babe, don’t,” he muttered gently, never tearing his scowl away from the assembled women. To them, he said, “First of all, she’s right. If Barbara wants her stuff, she can come grab it, herself. She and Dick need to talk, anyway. Second—”

Starling grunted, crossing her arms just a little tighter over her chest. Her biceps bulged a bit, making the sleeves of flowers, blades and thorns on her skin twitch dangerously. With a lowered brow and a stretching sneer, she said, “ _First_ off, Discount Flash, she’s out of town at the moment. _Second_ thing—”

“—what makes you think she has anything else to say to that d-bag anyway?” Dina finished, lip curling.

“ _Second,”_ Wally snapped, determined to finish his sentence. His expression turned dangerously still, and as he spoke, Tim noticed the rest of the others step into the hall slowly, eyes narrowed with suspicion. The Flash stepped forward, placing himself in front of his Teammates protectively, with shoulders squared as if he were ready to throw a punch at the Birds of Prey. His voice was a low growl. “Don’t let me hear you talk that way about Dick Grayson again. Do you understand me?”

Dina bared her teeth. She took a step forward, too, looking just about ready to tear Wally a new one. “I’m not sure, hon. Wanna run that by me one more time?”

“Gladly.” Artemis’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Talk $#!^, get hit, you bi—”

Dina lunged.

So did Artemis.

But before the two heroines could rip each other’s hair out, someone appeared right in between them. Shoving her arms out hard to force some space in between Tigress and Canary, Dawn Granger grit her teeth, and shouted above the snarling pair of blondes. “Alright, that’s enough! Dina! Artemis! Hey!”

She managed to push hard enough to form a sizable gap, leaving the two women standing several feet apart. They glared daggers at each other, but stayed silent, listening as Dawn said her piece.

“We’re all on the same side, here, aren’t we?” She put up her hands, trying at a placating sign. Her tone was mellow and soothing. Tim had to admire her calm—she was an island of stillness in the sea of vibrating rage that emanated off both of Barbara’s best friends. Her tongue flicked nervously over her lips as she continued. “We’re all worried about Barbara, and we’re all just trying to help her out. Right?”

Artemis snarled through her teeth. “Oh, I’m not so sure about that. _She_ ran out on Dick. _Not_ the other way around.”

“Wait—”

Dina’s laugh was high and loud, and twice as derogatory. “And yet, I don’t see Babs sleeping around on _him!”_

“Huh, really?” Artemis jabbed a finger at Dove. “Then what’s she doing here? Coming to grab her new girlfriend’s pajamas?”

Dawn’s reared back, stung. But her recovery was quick, and she softly said, “I’m going to ignore that, Artemis, because it’s irrelevant. And untrue. What we need to do is find the real problem, here. And that’s—”

“What’s going on in here?” Dick appeared in the doorway, stopped by Jason’s quick hand on his chest. He started, and shot his brother a questioning glance.

Jason could only shake his head as he whispered, “You shouldn’t be here, man. Not right now…”

Dina craned her neck, hands clapping over her hips. “Is that Dick? The man of the hour himself?”

Dick stiffened.

“Congratulations!” Black Canary crowed. Starling and Barda both made sounds of agreement, nodding with savage smiles that made Tim’s skin crawl. Zinda and Dawn both frowned, as Dina continued, “On your recent conquest, that is. Man, you must be so proud of yourself for landing a catch like that circus slu—”

“Shut up!” Artemis snapped.

“No, sweetie, I don’t think I will.” Dina’s eyebrows bunched together as she scowled. “I’ve got a lot of choice words for you, Grayson. Mostly about how I held your girlfriend for hours and hours while she cried. Telling me all about how much you hurt her. You should know that. And what you did? That was unforgivable.”

It was Jason who piped up, then. “You think it was his fault? Lady, lemme tell you a &*#% thing—"

“Yeah, right.”

But Dawn paused. Cocked her head as she side-eyed Jason. “What are you talking about?”

“He was drugged.” Wally answered quickly, with a look darker than the furthest reaches of the Cave. “He was _forced._ And we need to get Babs here, _now,_ so that she can hear his side of the story.”

Dawn, Zinda, and Barda all stopped short. They blanched, eyes going wide. But Dina only let out a high, cruel note of a laugh, shoulders shaking. It was a shocking sound, so outside of the reaction they’d all been expecting that all anyone could do was openly stare, slack-jawed, at Dina’s open smile.

“Ah,” she gasped, tilting her chin down after she recovered. “That’s a good one. I’m afraid Babs is indisposed at the moment—off on another case. But even if she wasn’t, do you honestly think she’d buy that, either? Let me spell it out for you all, since none of you guys seem capable of adding two and two together.” She raised a hand, gesturing in the air. “First, Dick is pissed at Babs. Then, Babs is pissed at Dick. They fight. They both storm off. Barbara goes off to fight some crime and punch some baddies, because that’s what she does best. And Dickie-bird goes off to screw a redhead, because that’s what _he_ does b—”

“Stop it,” Conner snarled.

Because Dick Grayson’s face had lost all trace of color. He stood frozen, staring at Dina with wide eyes and a slightly twitching lower lip. On cue, his friends crowded closer around him, as if they could guard against Black Canary’s words. But Dick shook his head. Took a step forward.

“She’d ‘buy it’,” he said softly. Pleadingly. “If I could just talk to her. Please. Tell me where she went.”

Dina squinted. Pursed her lips, then shrugged. “She doesn’t want to talk to you. To _any_ of you.”

“What, are you saying she ran out on us? All of us?” Jason snapped. “Just like that?”

“ _Just_ like that.”

“But she wouldn’t _do that!_ We’re her family,” Stephanie cried. “She needs us, Di, please—”

“If she needs you so bad,” Dina said pointedly, “Then why isn’t she here, right now?”

Stephanie’s mouth slammed shut. So did Jason’s. Tim could feel something steely and cold prickling in his veins, and he grasped the edge of the door even harder.

“Barbara sent us here because she didn’t want to come. Doesn’t want to deal with any of you, right now. _Especially_ not you, Dickie.” Dina waved a hand at the manor around them. “Guess she finally remembered why she got the #$%% out of this place to start with. Better a Bird than a Bat, I say. _We’re_ her real family.”

Damian scowled up at the Black Canary as if he were thinking of a hundred different ways he could kill her before she had the chance to open up her mouth again. Slowly, he forced out, through gritted teeth, _“Where is she?”_

Dina raised an eyebrow again, letting it sit high on her forehead. And then, she shook her head. “Ladies, we all know what we came for. Let’s move.”

Barda and Starling pushed through the barrier of heroes, and headed for the staircase. Tim doubted that anyone could have stopped them if they tried—especially not Barda. The nine-foot tall woman shook the floor as she stepped across the boards, arms swinging like mighty tree trunks. One flick of her finger could probably shatter Tim’s skull.

Dina followed, hips waving like she was stepping down a runway. She tossed her hair over one shoulder and called out to the other two, who were still hesitating by the door.

Dawn looked deeply uncomfortable. Zinda was currently wrapped around one Stephanie Brown.

“So good to see you, baby doll,” she whispered. “Just wish it was a happier occasion.”

Stephanie’s face was turning her favorite shade of purple.

So, Tim took the opportunity to sidle up to Dove. Her feet may as well have been cemented in place, because she stood frozen, staring after Canary with a tight frown. Everyone else was doing the same, too. Conner and Will seemed ready to go after the three women, while Artemis was already halfway up the stairs. Wally was steering Dick back into the kitchen, leaning in to whisper something comforting in his ear.

Tim cleared his throat, catching Dawn’s attention, and whispered,

“Can you tell us? Where Barbara went?”

Dove started like she’d touched a livewire, and whirled. For a moment, she just stared, blinking. Probably not understanding the question. But then her eyes seemed to clear, and she said, “No. I’m…I’m sorry, Tim. She didn’t tell anyone.”

“Not even Dina?”

“Dina says she saw her off, last night.” Dawn frowned, and looked away. Suddenly overcome with emotion. “There was this…there was a massacre at an office building. It was _terrible._ Some maniac broke in with guns and knives and…killed _everyone_. A lot of the employees tried to run, but they were found dead in the lobby. The doors were locked. There was a broken window halfway up the building, but other than that…”

She shrugged. Swallowed. “No other clear point of entry. The cops are stumped, and frankly, we are too. Babs took off to go find the guy who did it. We haven’t heard from her, since.”

Tim frowned. Reached for his back pocket, where his phone was tucked away securely. “What time was this?”

“Not sure. Sometime between eleven and two?”

He slid the phone out, checked the text thread he had opened with Barbara. Sure enough, his last message had been left on ‘read’ at 1:03 a.m.

He hurriedly typed out another message.

 **TIM –** your Birds are here to get your things. Said you’re on another case? Pls reply asap

He glanced back up at Dawn. “If you need help, a few of us could swing over to Cormorant and check things out. How’s the crime scene?”

She shook her head a little. “Swarming with G-men and the like. The FBI’s considering this an act of terrorism, and from what Dina said, even Babs is rattled. You should probably stay in Gotham.”

“But if Babs is—”

“Tim.” Dawn’s eyes snapped shut, and a line appeared between her brows. He and Dove knew each other well from the nights he’d spent around the Clocktower. Tim usually stopped by to check in with Barbara, when she’d still been ‘Oracle’, help her with a difficult case, or pick up a few coding tricks. The other Birds knew him on sight—most of them treated Tim like a little brother or a team mascot; there was always plenty of crushing hugs and homecooked food waiting for him when he visited.

And Dawn was no exception. The two of them enjoyed spending mornings together, as the only ones awake. Dawn because she was an early riser, and Tim because he was an insomniac. Sometimes, they sat side by side on the roof, watching the sun come up. Never saying anything, just enjoying the company.

Now, her eyes fluttered open, and she said, softly, “There’s something wrong. I don’t know what it is, Tim, but I do know that you’re all safer if you stay together.”

“Then what about Barbara?”

“Barbara does her own thing,” Dawn retorted, with a bitter twinge. “#$%% knows _I_ can’t talk any sense into her. And she’s not about to listen to anyone else. Honestly? I’d say she’s a lost cause.” Dawn looked down at the floor, a little sadly. “In my experience, if Barbara wants to go jump off a cliff, there’s nothing anybody can do to stop her. All we can do is watch her self-destruct.”

Tim wanted to disagree. To open his mouth and dispute that claim, paint Barbara in a better light. But the words wouldn’t come, and he found that there wasn’t anything else to say. Dawn was right. Barbara was a closed book. And when she was hurting, she pushed everyone around her as far away as they’d go.

“If what you all said about Dick is true, Tim, then…I’m so sorry. I wish I could—” Dawn’s eyes teared up, and she blinked hard. Tilted her chin up to scowl at the stairs. “Here, I should probably go make sure that they don’t wreck anything.”

She took off, pushing past Zatanna and Kaldur as she went. Tim could have stayed put. Stood around with everyone else as they decided which course of action to take next, now that a flock of angry Birds had flown into the manor. Kaldur was suggesting a diplomatic conversation, while Will leaned towards following his sisters’ example and heading up after them—tossing the women to the curb until they told them where to find Barbara, and apologized to Dick. Not necessarily in that order.

But instead, Tim beat them to the punch, and trailed after them, quickly. His feet pounded the stairs, hand sliding over the polished rail. He met Jason and Damian’s eyes right before he turned off down the hall, and saw them both nod. Tim reciprocated quickly, then hurried towards Barbara’s room.

“All I’m saying is they’ve got a point.” He heard Zinda’s quieter-than-usual voice filter through the cracked door. “The two of ‘em need to talk things out, face-to-face. What if Dickie _was—”_

There was a loud thump. Tim pressed close to the wall, getting as near to the room as he dared.

“Ugh. _Please_ tell me you’re not buying that $#!^.”

“But it makes sense.” Dawn’s voice was insistent. “A #$%% of a lot more sense than the alternative. We _know_ Dick. He would never hurt her on purpose, Di.”

By way of reply, Dina barked out, “Here, hand me that hairdryer on the dresser. Has anyone seen her laptop?”

Tim’s eyes narrowed, and his fingertips dug into the wallpaper. Barbara’s laptop was essentially an extension of the Batcomputer—if the Batcomputer was three-hundred-percent more advanced and encrypted. Barbara’s entire career was on that laptop. All of her research, all of the data she’d compiled over the years, _everything_. The only other system that came close was the one Barbara had set up at the Clocktower, and even then, she could access all her files from there. Easily.

Add to that the fact that the laptop was practically her baby. No one was allowed to access it, let alone _touch_ it, except for Barbara. The one time that Tim had asked to take a look—to see if he could maybe replicate a few of her programs—she’d almost breathed fire. (Eventually, she walked him through it, happy to help him learn. But he still wasn’t allowed to lay so much as a finger on the thing.)

Maybe Dina and the others were just trying to be helpful. Cover their bases and make sure they got as much of Barbara’s stuff as possible out of the manor. But even so…

Tim’s knuckles rapped softly against the door, as he swung it open.

“Hey,” he said, ducking his head a little.

All five women tensed. Dina was scowling, and Barda looked like she was contemplating how easy it would be to throw him out the window. Tim threw up his hands in what he prayed came off as a placating gesture of surrender and added, “I come in peace. Alfred just sent me up to see if you guys needed help finding everything.”

Dina didn’t seem overly impressed, but she nodded. “Fine. Where’s her phone charger?”

Tim pointed towards the bedside table, where the cord was plugged into an outlet in the wall.

“Makeup?”

“In the desk drawer.”

“Hm.”

The others floated around the room, scooping up Barbara’s possessions and piling them into a heap on the bedspread. Tim sat amongst the debris; legs curled up underneath him with Barbara’s pillow hugged close to his chest. He watched them work, and called out helpful hints and directions from his place on the bed. Most of the time they asked him specifically. Others, they didn’t bother, but Tim could tell when they were struggling to find something.

Finally, there came the fateful question: “Where’s her laptop?”

Dina’s eyes were dark and pointed as she asked. The insistence in her voice left no room for bullcrap.

In truth, Barbara’s laptop was currently charging down in the Cave. She typically did all of her research down there, these days, and didn’t bother bringing it upstairs. She called him obsessive, but Tim had seen her hunched over the keys at all hours of the night, typing away at things he could only guess at.

Tim swallowed. Then shrugged. Bullcrap it was, then.

“The screen broke the other day,” he stated simply, “so she sent it to the shop.”

Dina’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes widened by a fraction. “What?”

“Didn’t she tell you?” Tim clutched the pillow just a little tighter. “I mean, when she sent you over? That her laptop wasn’t here?”

“No,” Black Canary snapped. There was something cold about her posture—almost frozen, but not quite. Disconnected, like her mind had gone to static, and all she could still do was glare at Tim like she wanted to punch him in the teeth. Then, more softly, she added, “Which shop? Do you know when we can pick it up?”

“Sorry.” He turned up his hands in an apologetic shrug. “You’d have to ask Babs.”

Gritting her teeth, Dina whirled towards the window. She drew the curtains aside with a savage sweep of her hand, and glared out the window. Dawn and Zinda exchanged a narrowed-eye glance, but got back to work folding and sorting Barbara’s shirts into neat piles. Barda and Starling were busying themselves with untangling the mess of wires that were Barbara’s three pairs of headphones.

But it was Black Canary that commandeered Tim’s attention. He watched her jaw working as she clenched and unclenched her teeth. Dina’s knuckles were white on the windowsill, and with every passing second, she seemed to grow more and more tense. Like a spring being wound tighter and tighter and _tighter._

So he finally broke the silence with a soft, “You know, it’s weird.”

Dina’s head snapped around. Her scowl betrayed suspicion.

But Dawn asked the question before she could, one eyebrow raised high. “What is?”

“Just…” His lower lip jutted out a little, as his eyes darted to the side. Feigning confusion, when he wasn’t all that confused in the first place. “That Babs went out patrolling—and then on a case—without her uniform. That’s all.”

“She took the Batgirl suit,” Dina explained through her teeth.

“Really? Huh. That’s cool. That she’s trying that out again, I mean.” Tim nodded vaguely, then put on his best thoughtful expression, letting his eyes rove up to the ceiling. “A little odd, though. I mean, the comms on that thing are _way_ outdated. And probably pretty bugged out, at this point. Like, at best, she’d get a signal radius of about a quarter mile. But I mean, as long as she has a transmitter, I’m sure she’ll be fine…”

“She does.” Dina stepped away from the window, stalking towards the bed. She scooped up one of Barbara’s workout tanks and held it like a sword. Tim had never seen a neon pink weapon before, but he supposed there was a first time for everything. Voice clipped, Dina added, “And she’s got her phone.”

“Oh,” Tim breathed, nodding like it all made perfect sense, now. “Of course. Right. I mean, I did just text her. Let’s see if she’s replied, yeah?”

He dug his phone out of his rear pocket, shifting on the bed a little, then unlocked it with a few swipes of his fingers.

No reply in sight.

Which was strange, in and of itself. Barbara usually had lightning-quick response time, since her phone was on her person almost 24/7. It was a habit she’d picked up as Oracle, the superhero community’s ‘official information broker’. People called her all the time—begging for info, checking for updates on cases, etc.—and so she’d always had at least three phones within reach. After the surgery that had given back her mobility, Barbara still kept at least one phone in her pocket, belt or purse at any given moment. Tim wasn’t sure whether it was a security blanket, or just proclivity on her part. But either way, quick responses were both a force of habit, and just simple etiquette.

Granted, Barbara probably wasn’t in a texting sort of mood. She’d ignored all their calls and most of their messages yesterday, in the aftermath of the breakup. (Which was also suspect…since the declaration of Barbara’s split from Dick came in the form of a text message…to Stephanie...) Tim supposed he couldn’t entirely blame his sister for that, though. Maybe she was still in a funk.

Maybe she just hadn’t seen her phone, yet?

Still, though…

Tim’s thumbs tapped quickly across the screen.

 **TIM –** Babs you’re kind of scaring me. Are you ok?

He worried his lower lip between his teeth.

Barbara _had_ stopped replying rather abruptly last night. Was it because of the office building attack, like Dawn had said? Had Barbara somehow gotten caught in the crossfire? What if she’d been hurt?

No, that was ridiculous. Dina said she’d seen her off, leaving on a mission to find the killer behind the massacre. Most likely scenario, Barbara had gotten distracted, and dropped off the conversation out of necessity. Gunshots and screaming were usually pretty attention-grabbing, after all.

Or…maybe Dawn was right, and something fishy was going on.

His gaze flickered back up to the Birds, who were watching him quietly. Carefully. And, in the case of Dina Lance, _predatorily._

“Nothing yet,” he explained, doing his best to swallow down his apprehension. “Hope she’s okay.”

“I’m sure she’s just fine,” Dina said flatly.

Then, she waved a hand at her comrades, who took their cue and began scooping up the piles of Barbara’s things into their arms. Tim watched them file out the door, one after the other. Dawn shot him a soft look of concern before she disappeared. Zinda gave him a cheerful (if a bit forcibly so) goodbye. Dina was the last one out, and she paused halfway through the portal with her fingers on the knob.

Craning her neck to look him in the eye, she said, “FYI, kid, it’s probably best if you take that nose of yours and unstick it from this whole situation, okay?” Her eyes swept away, and her frown tightened. “Barbara’s hurting—she’s been betrayed by the people closest to her. So just do us all a favor, and give her space.”

Tim’s spine straightened. “We didn’t _betray_ her. If she’d just talk to us, we could—”

Dina threw up a hand. “Like I said before. Not an option.”

She was already out the door before Tim could reply with any sort of accusation. He was left adrift on Barbara’s wrinkled bedspread, clutching a pillow for dear life.

 _We didn’t betray her,_ Tim thought again, frowning.

Beside his knee, where he’d set it face-down, his phone buzzed.

A line appeared between his brows. As Tim flipped it over, letting it bounce a little on the sheets, he caught sight of the screen. Sure enough, it was a text from Barbara.

 **BARBARA –** Undercover. Can’t talk right now.

Blunt. Too blunt. Tim felt a painful twinge in his chest. He knew she was hurting, but he just wished she could understand that he was only coming from a place of concern. A knot of uneasiness was stirring in the pit of his stomach, spiced with a pang of hurt feelings, and with a dash of confusion added in for flavor.

He didn’t have time to think of all the possible reasons Barbara would have to be mad at _everyone,_ before the phone vibrated again.

 **BARBARA –** But I’m fine, Tim. Never Better.

For whatever reason, that didn’t ease his nerves.

Not in the slightest.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Darkness… Silence… She wasn’t even aware of them until one disappeared… A switch was thrown, and sound filtered in—

_“Is the subject stable?”_

Steady beeping…shuffling footsteps…the clatter of metal on metal…

_“Her vital signs are improving at an exponential rate…how is this possible?”_

_“Like I told you. The gunshot was a minor setback.”_

_“Try not to sound so smug, Wilson. We all know that—"_

_“Hold your tongue, Talon.”_

_“Yes, Grandmaster.”_

_“Good. Now…let’s see what you’ve brought us, Mr. Wilson.”_

A brush of skin against her cheek. Her eyes rolled beneath her lids as she shivered away from the touch. It felt…wrong…unwelcome…

_“She’s awake. One of you, ask her again. See if there’s been any improvement.”_

Words were being spoken to her...a soft puff of air against the shell of her ear… _“What is your name?”_

Her lips fell open to offer up a reply… out of instinct… But her mind was downy and her thoughts muffled by white fog. _Everything_ was white, struck through with muzzy pink and gray, and thinking became too hard…too much…

“I…” she rasped. “No…what…?”

_“It’s still not working. Moffit?”_

_“Scans show her limbic system is still underactive. It’s a wonder she can verbalize, at all.”_

_“I suppose headshots_ are _more difficult to heal…”_

_“Maybe you should have thought about that before you shot her point blank!”_

_“She’s a Bat, birdbrain. Go chase down Red Robin or Batman and see how easy it is.”_

_“Hold your tongue you insolent—!”_

_“Both of you. Stop this petty arguing.”_

Another brush against her face. A caress.

_“Lovely, isn’t she?”_

_“Yes. She is. Apologies, Grandmaster.”_

_“Perfect. Pristine. Aside, of course, from the obvious_ hole _that was in her head.”_

_“It was necessary, sir.”_

_“I’m sure it was, Wilson. At least, I’m sure that you thought it was.”_ The hand stilled on her cheek. _“You understand that we’ll have to dock your pay considerably for this slight. We’ve lost a precious week repairing the damage you caused to her frontal and parietal lobes. It will be a miracle if her mind remains intact.”_

_“It will. The Pit’s restorative properties—”_

_“—outmatch even our own methods, yes. I am aware.”_

_“Grandmaster, if I may interject… With all due respect, I thought the goal was memory obliteration? Talons are usually made to forget ev—”_

_“Moffit, don’t be a fool. I would sooner destroy an original Caravaggio, or burn the Notre Dame Cathedral to ashes. You do know who this is, don’t you?”_

_“I—”_

_“No, of course you don’t. You haven’t been given the clearance.”_ A deep sigh. The hand retracted from her face. _“Regardless. This one’s cognitive functions are to remain intact, is that understood?”_

_“Yes, Grandmaster.”_

_“Wonderful. Now. Put her back under. And give her more.”_

Liquid gushed into her mouth, cool and burning. Pain flared deep, and searing. A scream burbled from her throat—

 

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Hyuh!”_ She gasped, bolting upright. “ _Heh…heh…_ heh.”

Barbara shivered, limbs quivering, as she forced her breathing into steadiness. Her fists balled at her sides, and she could feel soft, cold silk against her skin, bunching between her fingers. It sent a new shudder wracking through her body. She could still feel a cold burn in her skull, leaving her with the feeling of her head being trapped in a vise. A pressing pain pushed at her temples, swirled at her forehead…

Barbara dragged a hand over her face. Her fingers lingered at the eye of the storm in her skull—the coldest of the pain, but the most stagnant—and pressed at the spot right between her eyes. She wasn’t sure why, but she expected to feel something there. Something—

Barbara’s breathing hitched as she doubled over, arms wrapping over her midsection.

_I was…I was shot. Oh, my &*#...I was…_

She could hear the echoes of shrill laughter. Her stomach churned…

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. All Barbara could do was sit frozen, mind replaying the sights, smells, and sounds of another night years ago… The sharp tang of gunpowder that hung in the air…the knobs of her spinal cord scraping across the floorboards…a white-hot supernova of agony swirling and stinging in her middle… But once she’d gained enough control to take back the reins of her thought process, she steered towards another trail entirely:

Where was she? And what the #$%% was she doing here?

Barbara could remember the basics—a fight, Slade, witnesses—oh &*#, those poor _people—_ shot, captured, and Cal had…had _betrayed_ her…

Her hand rubbed distractedly again at her forehead (where she’d been _shot_ ) and she blinked, letting her eyes twitch over the room.

She was in a bed. Silk sheets, fluffy pillows, plush comforter, woven tassels—the works. The room was small, but what it lacked in size, it more than made up for in extravagance. Everywhere she looked, Barbara saw lush carpet, rich curtains, decorative iron work and wood paneling, and soothing earth tones. It almost felt like a guest room back at the manor, and for a blissful moment, Barbara could feel her heartbeat slow, soothed by the warm familiarity.

But that feeling was shattered the moment her eyes latched on the dresser.

It was short, only about waist-high, and made from deep mahogany-colored boards. By itself, it wasn’t any more threatening than the bedpost, or the lampshade, or the throw rug. But at its side stood a strange figure standing stock still, soldier-like. Barbara jumped a little, but upon closer inspection, she could see it was a dress form—a mannequin without limbs or a head. The dummy wore black Kevlar armor, with a fastened gold-link belt and a matching cape. Her boots rested where the form’s feet would have been if it was a real person, and the gloves were tossed carefully over one shoulder. The symbol on the chest stood out like a beacon, and it made Barbara wince—here was her suit, her uniform. Just out in the open. Ready for her to put on, ready for her to exploit.

It was definitely a trap.

And if it had just been the dress form wearing her armor, Barbara might’ve been able to overcome the prickles of uneasiness skittering over her skin. But on the dresser, there was a small wrought-iron easel, no bigger than her hand. It stood at attention, and supported the weight of a solid white object, oval-shaped and staring.

Barbara slid out of the bed, and padded across the room. For the first time, she noticed that someone had dressed her in a satin nightgown—a fact that she decided to shelf and dissect at a later date. Instead of thinking first, she reached out for the easel, fingers closing around the mask.

It barely weighed anything in her hand, and was as smooth and cold as marble. Her eyes danced over the pearly sheen, the pointed notch that suggested a beak, and the shallow lines etched carefully around the eyes, like a hint of soft feathers. The grooves were accented with soft, subtle strokes of silver paint. The mask shimmered in the dim light, but it was those eyes that caught her attention, most of all. They were deep and hollow, staring and unwavering.

Easily the creepiest thing in the room.

On top of the dresser, placed next to the easel, was a small, flat card, and Barbara’s eyes drifted there, next. She didn’t dare touch it, but she did glance over the scritchy ink letters that covered its face.

**_Miss Kean,_ **

**_On behalf of the Court of Owls, welcome to your new accommodations._ **

**_To show that we bear no ill will, we have furnished your room with the finest amenities, as well as your uniform and equipment. This is a show of trust, my dear, because we would like to take this opportunity to extend an invitation, which is this:_ **

**Barbara Kean, The Court of Owls is pleased to offer you full membership, to join our ranks, and to take your rightful place amongst Gotham’s most elite and powerful. To rise above the city’s darkness, and show its people the true light.**

**_Should you choose to accept this magnanimous offer, simply place the mask over your face, and make your way to the building’s basement level, where you will find us waiting with open arms to welcome you into the brotherhood. To lead you on the path towards your truest potential._ **

**_Until we meet,_ **

**_THE GRANDMASTER_ **

Barbara swallowed, blinking, and returned her gaze to the mask. It stared silently up at her, as if waiting for an answer. Daring her to choose wrong.

 _Too easy,_ she thought, taking in her uniform. It had been laid out with such care, standing ready and patient, like a faithful pet, ready to see her through whatever the rest of the morning had in store. It was too good to be true; the enemy never left her the means to escape—not without some unseen snare.

Besides, Barbara noticed that this ‘Grandmaster’ hadn’t bothered to mention what would happen ‘should she choose _not to_ accept this magnanimous offer’.

She spun on her heel, stalking to the window. Barbara knew she’d been abducted. Just like she knew that the fact her limbs weren’t tied down, or a mind-numbing drug wasn’t leeching her senses away, was just a fluke. From what she’d managed to glean from her sources, the Owls were a flock of control freaks. They left nothing to chance—and leaving a caged Bat unsupervised left a _#$%% of a lot_ to chance, no matter how gilded the cage may be. No, this…this _situation_ wasn’t what it seemed. Of that, Barbara could be absolutely sure.

A brush of the curtains and a glance outside the slightly bubbled glass was more than enough. The view outside was a quiet street corner, with a few bystanders milling around, a few street kids smoking on the curb. Several cars rumbled past, but it was easy to see that this corner of Gotham was quieter than the others—the cops patrolled in this sector more often, and the mobsters knew to keep their distance.

&*#% it. She was in Harbor House—one of the most prestigious gathering places for Gotham’s High Society. In the city’s early days, it had been an orphanage and settlement house that sheltered abandoned children, and helped immigrants to land on their feet. Over time, funding drained away from the organization that maintained Harbor House, and several of Gotham’s richest families swept in with a generous offer; the sort of offer that no self-respecting philanthropists could pass up.

The deal was this: leave Harbor House, and turn it over for renovation. In exchange, they would be given a place for their operations, and money for their beneficiaries. The bargain was struck, and the elite moved into one of Gotham’s oldest surviving above-ground structures. The previous tenants bowed out peacefully.

Though, not before a few of their orphans went missing.

That fact was glossed over in almost every account Barbara had come across during her research. Almost as if every author, historian, and eyewitness was desperate to forget—or had been paid generously to _pretend_ they had. The missing children stayed missing. The few people who knew about their disappearances never found a trace of them.

 _Alright._ She’d gotten her bearings, and determined her location; the first step she’d been trained in for any abduction scenario. Bruce had drilled that much into her, at least. So, Barbara knew that the next step was inventory.

Her mind ticked off her resources, one by one. All her limbs were in working order, and her thoughts weren’t dulled by drugs or amnesia. She’d been shot…but apparently, she was better, now? (Another fact to file away for later.) Good. She flew around the room, checking corners, sifting through drawers, peeking inside the wardrobe. A few clothing hangers that she could use to pick a lock or stab out an eye…plenty of clothes and bedsheets that she could use to rappel out the window—

On further inspection, the window appeared to be bolted shut. _& *#%. _

Amending that observation, there were plenty of clothes and bedsheets to wrap around her fist if she punched out the glass.

She had the mask. The note. A few pairs of shoes in the bottom of the closet…

Barbara’s eyes drifted to her suit, tongue clamped between her teeth.

It was a trap. It had to be a trap.

But still…

She reached out with a tentative finger. Nothing zapped her, nothing shot out or sprayed from the dress form. There didn’t seem to be a tripwire, or a bomb, or…anything. It was just her suit, laid out and perfect for her. (Well, almost perfect. Her cowl appeared to be missing…)

Barbara glanced at the owl mask. Then back at her uniform. Mask…uniform…mask…uniform…

It was as if they were offering her a choice between escape, or assimilation. And she seemed to be free to choose either.

_Huh._

Barbara’s fingers dug into her belt—her hosts had emptied the pockets. That, at least, was more along the lines of what she’d expected.

Lucky for her, though, a Bat’s uniform was so much more than a utility belt.

Barbara slipped a few slender picks out from the little nooks, crannies, and hidden compartments in the armor plating. She slid a small microchip from the tip of one glove’s finger. Hidden in the wrist was a small USB drive. Tucked into the curve of the waist was a small transmitter. Barbara plucked each tool from the suit, and laid them out over the bedsheets.

Her wrist computer, however, fritzed out the second she switched it on. Static swirled across the screen, before it flickered away entirely. So much for that, then.

Inventory was complete. Next step? Calling for backup.

Barbara tried the transmitter. All she got was a screech of feedback that made her squawk and yank the thing out of her ear. No comms, no transmitter, no wrist computer.

She was on her own, then.

The final step was to make her escape, but she hesitated.

There were several points of exit that she could spot right away. More than enough to get her out quickly, to get her out undetected. And Barbara would’ve been more than willing to take them—

—if this hadn’t been her goal all along.

Calvin’s ‘betrayal’ had been part of the plan from the beginning. They’d spent weeks strategizing, doing their best to lay out the best way of infiltrating Harbor House and the Court of Owls from the inside. The best way they’d figured was smuggling Barbara in under the guise of captivity. Cal had assured her that beginning the Talon’s conversion process would embed her deep enough to get her what she needed. Once inside, she could escape and make her way to their data hub, where she’d be able to glean all the information she’d ever need.

Slade’s involvement had blindsided her.

And Calvin had gone back on his word. Sold her out— _for real._ His entire guise of ‘helping’ her may have even been a trap all along.

So the blueprints she’d committed to memory, the network passwords she’d memorized, the Talon patrol schedules she’d learned? All of it was dead to her, now. If Cal had turned on her, then she couldn’t trust a &*#% word out of his lying mouth.

But there was still the mission. Information was information. The possibility of finding enough data to scrub the Owls from her city was tantalizing; it outweighed the allure of instant escape. She’d come here to glean their secrets, and had been beaten, shot and dragged unconscious to this upper-crust clubhouse in the process. Barbara wasn’t about to waste it.

The Batgirl suit was out of the question. Barbara looked that gift horse in the mouth, and decided that its fangs were far too incriminating. With a vow to come back for it later—when she was more heavily armed and armored—she turned away towards the bed to gather up the equipment she’d gleaned. It would have to be enough.

A more thorough inspection of the mask revealed no traps. A brush of her finger against the interior failed to turn up any traces of poison or glue, or any other kind of offending substance. It was an electronic device, that much she could tell, based on the small charging port at its base, alone. There was some form of tech inside, but Barbara knew her circuitry—the mask wasn’t rigged to electrify or hypnotize her. If anything, the design was closer to the tech inside the Bats’ masks and cowls…

Hm. Consider her curiosity piqued.

And like a flash, the workings of a new strategy—one that combined reconnaissance and escape—lit up in her mind. All laid out.

A smirk quirked at her lips. And she slipped on the mask.

Sure enough, a digital screen appeared in her line of vision. Letters scrolled across, greeting her warmly.

**Welcome Miss Kean. The Court is awaiting your arrival.**

Barbara scooped up the rest of her ad-lib arsenal, tucking it into a make-shift satchel she’d folded out of one of the sheets, and marched towards the door.

It was unlocked.

_Wonderful._

The second she stepped out into the hallway, a small trail of golden sparkles appeared on the carpet below her feet. She followed it, but only with her eyes. It led down the dark, antiquated corridor, and around another corner. Barbara hummed a little, and brought a finger up to her temple experimentally. If it was anything like her mask…

Sure enough, the glittering trail disappeared as the mask responded to her touch. It was replaced by a rotating three-dimensional blueprint of the building. A wave of her hand spun the image, and she squinted at the thin lines and curves that made up its design.

The tech was amazing…much more advanced than anything she and Tim had come up with. When all of this was over, and she’d made her way back to the Cave, she’d be taking this little souvenir home to meet the family. Along with any data she could collect from the Court’s servers. It might be fun to pore over its inner workings with her little brother. She was sure they could come up with something identical, and maybe even make a few improvements.

The thought of Tim’s face lighting up as he analyzed the technology she now had over her face steeled Barbara’s nerves, and she took a step forward. If she didn’t get moving, she wouldn’t be seeing _any_ of her siblings again any time soon.

So she padded silently down the hall, wearing nothing but a slinky white nightgown and an owl mask. Not ideal garb for a mission, or even an escape attempt. Goosebumps prickled over her skin, and she grit her teeth against a shiver, but Barbara pressed forward. Best make do with what she had, after all.

The blueprints she’d pored over with Cal had placed the data center on the third floor of Harbor House, but she could no longer blindly trust the information they’d come up with together. Further inspection of the building’s inner workings had her second-guessing their initial assessment, anyway. The most likely place for the Court’s well of information seemed to be in the vast sublevel section. The rest of Gotham had no idea what lay under this structure, but based on what Barbara was seeing, it was _much_ more than anyone might’ve guessed.

Getting down there was easy. No Talons, no Court members, no civilians or society snobs or janitors or _anyone_ walked the halls but Barbara. The feeling of treading through a house that was older than Barbara’s great-grandparents would have been today made her feel small. Impermanent. The smells of furniture polish and ancient wood and stone permeated the chill air, and as she passed ornate paintings and sculptures, embroidered tapestries and glass display cases, Barbara was struck with the same feeling one would get in sneaking around a museum after-hours. (It was a feeling she was intimately familiar with, besides.)

The mask led her down several sets of stairs, through several heavy doors, and into what appeared to be a library of sorts. Books lined towering shelves that wrapped around her like castle walls, and Barbara would have stopped to admire it all if she hadn’t found herself focused on the one volume at the other end of the room that lit up with an amber glow, framed by the mask’s digital rendering.

Her fingers brushed over the spine. _The Birds of America,_ by John James Audubon. She recognized the name; Alfred had shown her several of the man’s works on lazy nights spent in the manor’s library. Audubon was a famous naturalist and ornithologist, but was probably most notable for his paintings. His favorite subjects were birds, and the volume she was tracing her thumb over right now was one of his more recognized books. If it was an original, it was probably extremely valuable. The kind of book you’d expect to find in a place of honor, not simply tucked away on a shelf.

Even without the mask’s help, Barbara would’ve singled the volume out almost immediately. In her experience, the enemy’s arrogance was often the first giveaway. They couldn’t resist leaving obvious clues, so long as those clues underlined their own importance, and stroked their own egos.

She tilted the book out of its place, and the shelf slid predictably to the side.

The Court truly was an ancient organization—just how many clichés was she going to have to encounter on this little sneak-around?

The answer to that question was made apparent by the worn stone steps on the other side. They led down, down, deep into the ground. She flinched at the feel of the cold stone on her bare feet, but stepped quietly down the steps. Curving with the stairs in a spiral, eyeing the owl sculptures in the stairwell’s small alcoves with suspicion, Barbara descended.

The décor down here was more simple, and yet somehow, much more elegant. Sleek. Understated. And yet each floor tile alone probably cost more than Barbara’s first computer.

This time, she did hear the clipping of footsteps down the hall, and she swept herself further in, away from the noise. The air was colder down here, the smell mustier (though someone had clearly tried to cover the scent with some sort of herbal concoction) which were both signs that she was underground. If she could just—

The floor slid out from beneath her, and Barbara choked on the air as she fell into open space.

Limbs flailing, darkness engulfing, her heart thundered between her ribs. Then she hit the ground with a smack of bone on rock that had her eyes rolling back and her teeth rattling. With a grunt of pain, she pushed herself up to her elbows. Almost immediately, a smattering of metallic clanks shook the ground beneath her, and shockingly bright light flooded her vision, making her head spin and ache with the force of the luminance. She blinked in the pale glow, wincing.

 A hazardous glance around revealed a corridor before and behind her. Twin walls of ivory colored stone, polished smooth, flanked her on each side, sailing impossibly high into the air. No ceiling—at least not one that she could see.

Barbara rolled onto her back with a small squeak.

Nothing felt broken or cracked. She’d definitely be seeing some bruises later, but she’d get over it. She estimated the fall at ten feet—her eyes snagged on a metal chute protruding from the darkness overhead that must have deposited her here—and it was a miracle nothing had splintered.

Getting to her feet was easy. Once she managed that, taking off down the corridor was even easier. She broke into a sprint, letting the soft yellow-y guidelines lead her down one path, then another. Around one corner, down a stretch, around another…

Was she…was she in a maze?

A sharp thud cracked the air beside her ear, and Barbara whirled, ducking. The knife was embedded deep in the white wall, glinting dangerously sharp. Just inches away from her face. Bronze, feather-shaped—the blade of a Talon.

And there he was, advancing slowly, fluidly, like a stalking tiger. It wasn’t Cal; this warrior was more heavily-built, wider. His arms swung like thick branches at his sides, and he clenched his mighty fists with an audible crack. Probably strong enough to crush her skull, Barbara decided.

And so she lunged.

The Talon swiped for her head—a hit that would lay her out flat if it landed—but she sailed underneath. Spun out of his way, letting her bare feet slide over the slick floor. Her fists shot out, snagged the folds of his uniform, and leapt up. Her heels landed in his back, and she kicked out, knocking the creature off balance. She’d surmised he was the top-heavy type—and Barbara was right.

The Talon crashed to the floor in a heap, but didn’t stay down. He was already twitching upright when Barbara turned the next corner. Her feet slapped against the ground, blood pumping, adrenaline already flowing to her extremities. She kept her breaths measured, daring only a brief glance backward every few seconds.

But even those few seconds were a huge mistake. Barbara barely ducked in time to avoid the slash of bronze at her face. She choked out a slight gasp as she slid under the extended arm of a new opponent, and popped to her feet nearby. This Talon was female, shoulders hunched and spine curling in a distinctly feline way. Her fingers bristled with gleaming bronze talons, and they _shinked_ together as she spun to face Barbara with a soft growl.

Barbara herself bit back a small squeak. Clearing her throat, she spoke her first words since stumbling out of the bed upstairs.

“Who the %*&# are you?”

Behind her lenses, the Talon’s eyes glowed golden. “Barbara Kean,” she hissed, and her voice was like the sound of an antique book’s spine as it was cracked open for the first time in decades. Fragile and cracking, but Barbara didn’t have the feeling that the Taloness herself was either of those things. “You are in violation of the Court’s offer. For this, you are sentenced to d—”

Barbara’s fist snapped across her cheek before she had the chance to finish. A few more kicks and hits sent the creature down with a shriek.

Once again, Barbara didn’t stick around to see if her attacks held any real permanence behind them. She was gone before the Talon even hit the ground.

She twisted and dove through passages and corridors, blood roaring in her ears. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps as she dashed through the stark white maze.

It only took about ten seconds for the dots to connect in her mind.

Barbara’s fingers curled around the edge of the owl mask. She ripped it off and flung it behind her. The clatter it made against the floor tile was loud, and set her teeth on edge, but Barbara kept running. This time, though, maybe the Court _wouldn’t_ be able to track her every move.

It took roughly five more minutes for her to come across the first door. She didn’t even pause to think before threw it open and slid inside.

Her hands slid against the smooth surface, as the door clicked shut. Panting breaths reflected back onto her face as she rested it against the doorframe, but Barbara only allowed herself a few seconds to get it together before she turned…

…and beheld a technological keep worthy of any cult-organization hiding in the shadows.

A smirk pulled at her lips. It appeared her guesses about the Court’s map had been spot-on, after all.

Screens glowed white and amber in the darkness. Consoles hummed lazily, and Barbara could feel that familiar sound thrumming in her veins as she stepped towards the central monitor. The room was cool and dark—perfect for keeping one’s secrets tucked away. Luckily, though, Barbara knew her way around hidden caves and classified intel alike. Hands fluttering to the makeshift satchel hanging at her hip, she found the microchip and the USB drive after a few deft sweeps with her hand.

A leeching chill spread over her skin as she slid the chip into the drive’s metal head, making her bristule with goosebumps. This was a precaution…nothing more. Just in case she didn’t make it out of here before…

The drive clicked into the side of the main console, and Barbara hunched over one of the keyboards. Her fingers flew across the keys, eyes twitching over the screen as she began stripping away the encryptions and chipping away at the firewall. The soft clicking of her fingertips against plastic seemed even louder in the dull silence of the room, and it set her nerves skittering anxiously beneath her skin.

Code streamed across her vision, glowing and scrolling, and Barbara broke through with one last keystroke.

“I’m in,” she muttered, with a trace of irony.

And once in, she began her search, combing through the system for anything of value. The files contained meeting schedules, budgets, quotas, reports…all useful, but not as useful as they could be.  Barbara narrowed her eyes and her search, nails tapping over the keys with renewed malice.

A few files were of particular interest: **Courtier Census** , **Talon Profiles** , and something called **Operation Red Queen**.

She flicked through them with as much speed as possible, eyes skimming over the information for anything of value. Just in case, she tucked all three files into the USB, before sifting back through. The Courtiers names, addresses, and personal information were all _right here,_ laid out pretty and perfect for anyone to come and access. A few of the names caught her by surprise, but mostly, each person on the Court’s membership roster seemed to be a perfect fit. Jameson and Emily Harrows, of the Gotham City Banking Harrows? They made perfect sense. Armand and Pamela Klein, multi-millionaire socialites who had been a pain in her #$$ at every gala, get-together and ice-cream social Barbara had ever been to? She found their names smack-dab in the middle of the list.

The Talon roster was also worthy of note. She found Calvin’s name typed in neat black letters, along with his date of birth, blood type, physical characteristics and medical history. Plus, something that said ‘date of final conversion’—a set of words that sent a strange shiver up the back of Barbara’s neck. The date given was several years ago. It looked so _final,_ like a date of death.

Her mouse clicked on the subfile marked **Talon John R. Grayson** , and Barbara found that she was shaking as she read over the profile.

**BIRTH NAME: John Richard Grayson II**

**D.O.B.: 14 June, 1989**

**D.O.D.: 9 August, 2004**

**D.O.R.** (‘Date of revival?’, Barbara wondered.) **: 10 August, 2004**

**DATE OF FINAL CONVERSION: 23 October, 2011**

**BLOOD TYPE: AB Positive**

**HAIR: Blk**

**EYES: Bl before conversion**

**SKIN: Olive before conversion**

**HEIGHT BEFORE CONVERSION: 5’6”**

**HEIGHT AFTER CONVERSION: 6’1”**

**WEIGHT BEFORE CONVERSION: 121.37 lbs.**

**WEIGHT AFTER CONVERSION: 194.65 lbs.**

**AGE AT RETRIEVAL: 15 years**

**ABSTRACT: Subject ‘Talon Grayson’ (note: distinct from Gray Son, as it is not the chosen candidate) was brought to us with injuries including: shattered skull, six (6) fractured ribs, fracture of thoracic and lumbar spine, broken wrist, etc. (See body of report for full description) Was healed after extensive post-mortem surgery and pre-conversion treatment routines. Once revived, Talon Grayson began his pre-conversion trials and training regimens.**

Barbara skimmed the rest, choosing instead to skip to the bottom, where more bite-sized information was laid out. She’d go back over the rest later, but for now, speed was key.

**TRIAL RESULTS: C+**

**CONCLUSION: Talon Grayson consistently proves that he is a subpar subject. His speed is exceptional, as is his finesse, but he consistently reacts negatively to authority and exhibits an unacceptable phobia of heights and the sensation of falling, likely stemming from his previous trauma. His inability to follow the Court’s commands to the letter likely stems from a flaw in his training or conversion processes. Perhaps, a flaw in his biology may be to blame (see Felding, article 12). The Court has reached a collective consensus that this replacement for our chosen candidate is inadequate at best, and volatile at worst. The true Gray Son remains in the hands of Bruce Wayne (see Reinhart, article 5, section 2), who has shown no willingness to join our ranks (see Reinhart, article 5, subsection 27). As such, the Court has voted that it is in our best interests to maintain Talon Grayson until his replacement can be procured. After a collective vote, it was decided that after Operation Red Queen has reached fruition, Talon Grayson will be decommissioned and terminated (see Court Session Minutes, month of February).**

Barbara frowned. There was too much to unpack there, and she was on a roll, but she couldn’t help but click back to Calvin’s file—

**TRIAL RESULTS: A**

**CONCLUSION: In spite of our reservations, Talon Rose displays the proper aptitude for the art of killing, and has exceeded our expectations in nearly every conceivable way. His finesse is unmatched and the strength afforded to him by the conversion process has taken well, by all appearances. While he was at first resistant to the trials, likely due to a biological factor (as described in Felding, article 12, section 3) the experimental implant (see Strange, article 4) proved to make up the difference. After the procedure, the candidate’s progress made leaps and bounds, and he is now unwavering in his loyalty to the Court and his Grandmaster. With this success, the Court has moved that use of the implant be employed in Operation Red Queen (see Court Session Minutes, month of November). Talon Rose has been cleared for active duty as the Court’s most supreme assassin, to be replaced only when the Grandmaster sees fit. Despite our qualms, due to the subject’s rougher background and dubious recruitment (see Haly, report 115) Talon Rose is a superior warrior, and will likely continue to serve the court for centuries to come, provided Operation Red Queen is a success.**

Barbara closed the window with a soft exhale. Implant? Conversion? Haly, report 115? ‘Operation Red Queen’? Her mind swirled with a thousand different connections, incomplete from lack of data and context. There was too much for her to pick apart here, in this room. She’d have to pray she could upload the rest to the drive and smuggle it out with her before—

Behind her, the door hit the wall with a _bang._ Barbara whirled, and saw the two Talons slipping through the door, leaning low with their movements eerily smooth and flowing.

—well, before _that_ happened. She frowned, and ripped the drive from the port.

“I don’t suppose either of you could point me in the direction of the nearest exit?” Barbara kept her tone level, and flicked a switch on the USB with her thumbnail. The microchip dropped soundlessly out of the metal head and onto the floor. Barbara could feel it underneath her heel as she stepped backward. “I couldn’t see any on the way in, and that’s a pretty serious violation of fire code.”

The Talons exchanged a glance, then surged forwards.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Barbara’s knees hit the ground and she let out a pained wheeze.

The Talon holding her cuffed hands behind her back shoved them up, _up,_ making her shoulders twinge and burn. She hissed through her teeth, sending a venomous glance up at the other, who stepped lightly forward, and waved a presenting hand in Barbara’s direction. With a voice like old papier mâché, she announced to the small room,

“The she-bat left her perch, Grandmaster. We found her pilfering the Court’s secrets, and leave judgment to you.”

 _Grandmaster._ Barbara’s eyes flicked over to face front, but a grasping hand clawed across her scalp before she could get a good look. With a sudden tug, her head was yanked backward. The bruises blooming on her skin were painfully aggravated by the movement; a small cry slipped from her throat.

Someone was looking down on her with dark eyes. She blinked, several times, until her bleary vision snapped into focus. A mask just like the one she’d discarded in the maze was the commanding focal point, framed by a dark hood, and Barbara could feel her jaw slacken. There was something immediately sobering about seeing that pale, expressionless face staring down with cold indifference. Anything could be happening behind that mask, and she wouldn’t have been able to guess.

His pristine white glove came up to cradle her chin, as a low hum thrummed in his chest.

“Indeed,” he concurred. “Most unfortunate, isn’t it? She would have made a lovely Courtier…even if our offer was never genuine.”

Barbara glowered, and jerked her chin out of his grip. The Grandmaster’s fingers curled inward, forming a fist.

“But before I pass judgment…what does she have to say for herself, this clever little she-bat? She does speak, doesn’t she?”

Barbara’s eyes narrowed to slits. _Yes, yes she does._ There were other people in the room; she could tell that much from her peripherals. But at the moment, she only had eyes for the smartly dressed man in the owl mask, and his slow, condescending drawl. A few choice words came to mind, brutally scathing and almost guaranteed to get her throat slit. Barbara bit those back, though, in favor of the forerunning question on her mind—

“How did you know?” she snapped. She could see the Grandmaster stiffen involuntarily, visibly confused by the inquiry. So she clarified, “How did you know I wouldn’t take the suit and run? You put me in an unlocked room with multiple exit points, and gave me _everything_ I needed to escape.” She bared her teeth, and scowled so heatedly that even she could feel its intensity. “Tell me why.”

For a moment, no one moved. The Talon’s grip tightened in her hair, dragging her head back so hard that her neck began to ache. The other fixed her honey-colored eyes on the floor, lips pursed against a response. Even the Grandmaster seemed to consider her more closely. But after a few tense moments of silence, he huffed out a soft breath of laughter and seized her chin once again. His grip was so hard that sharp pricks of pain bloomed beneath Barbara’s skin.

“We knew, my dear, because _you_ are nothing if not arrogant.” He tilted his head lazily. “Talon Rose told us all about you—your overconfidence, your pride, your cleverly-laid plans. And we’ve been watching you from the shadows for nearly your whole life. We _know_ you, dear Barbara. Possibly better than you know yourself.”

Barbara snapped at his fingers, teeth clacking. The Grandmaster growled as his hand clipped across her cheek, and sparks flashed in her eyes.

“Impudent child that you are,” he continued with a low snarl, “We knew that your pride would never allow you to abandon an objective. Some would call this determination, but those of us who know better know that determination without the proper—” His finger tilted her chin up. “— _direction_ can only lead to folly. But don’t worry; this is something you will learn in time, my dear. Under our careful tutelage.”

Barbara’s scowl intensified.

“Of course, you’re wondering why we left so much to chance, yes?” He drew his hand away with a flourish, and took one sweeping step back. “Something else you’ll learn, child, is that the Court _never_ takes unnecessary risks.”

Four people stood behind the Grandmaster on the other end of the room. Barbara recognized Slade Wilson’s smirk as he leaned against a wooden desk, eyeing her greedily. Next to him stood a man Barbara had never seen before, with a pair of glasses set high on the bridge of his nose, and a cropped patch of graying sandy hair. He leered over at her, eyes twitching over her face in a way that was decidedly uncomfortable. On his right was Hugo Strange, standing at attention with a thin smirk twisting his mouth. The last man, auburn haired and sneering…was James Gordon Junior.

Barbara snapped forward, pulling against the Talon’s grip as a snarl ripped from her throat. “ _You.”_

“Me.” James shrugged cavalierly. “So _good_ to see you again, cousin. How’s your boy-toy doing?”

“%*&# you!”

The Grandmaster’s hand cuffed her again, and Barbara bit her lip to keep from screaming. His low, cutting _tsks_ clicked against her ear, and the Talon dragged her face back up into the light. The Grandmaster was shaking his head, as he continued. “Allow me to elaborate. Had you foolishly chosen to ‘take your suit and run’, any one of my Talons—or these men—would have hunted you down. They would have dragged you back, kicking and screaming, to our loving embrace before you had the chance to _say_ the name ‘Batman’, let alone find him. We didn’t tempt fate, darling girl…but we _did_ know that you’d manage to find your way to the nearest computer.”

He held out his palm, glove crisp and pristine, and twitched his fingers imploringly. Taking her cue, the Taloness brandished Barbara’s homemade bag, and plucked the USB drive from it daintily. It dropped into the Grandmaster’s waiting hand, and he held it up to the light as if it were a quaint little trinket.

“The room itself was a stage set,” the Grandmaster mused, turning the drive over and over in his fingers. “Though the data was real. I was curious as to how you would react upon learning _everything_ that we have planned for you, our Gray Son, and Gotham herself. So, do tell, Ms. Kean. What _did_ you learn?”

“That’s not my name.” Barbara jerked against the Talon’s grip. “But I know who you are under that mask,” she snarled. “ _Vanaver.”_

He hummed appreciatively with a nod. “Hmm. Is that all? I suppose it is, isn’t it, you poor thing? The Talons did happen upon you rather quickly…but I suppose that’s beside the point. You’ve suspected my identity for quite a while, I’d wager. Ever since the parent-teacher conference, I would think. Do you know that it was our every intention to take you that night? A failed endeavor, admittedly, but that’s why we have contingencies in place. If only you had stepped out that door with the whelp instead of the Gray Son. But, alas. _His_ time isn’t yet here. However, I think we can all agree that _you_ are long overdue for a little taming.” He loomed over her, hands clasped behind his back. She could hear the self-satisfaction that laced his tone. “I won’t lie—I’m very excited to see just how these men will go about breaking you down.”

“I don’t break,” she sneered. “And you’ll never have your Gray Son. Not while I— _hhn.”_

The Talon squeezed, claws sinking into her sensitive scalp. A growl rumbled in his chest, and he looked up to his Grandmaster imploringly. “It would be my pleasure to slay her for you, Grandmaster.”

Vanaver waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you’ll have your chance in due time, Talon Orchard. But for now, we’ll conclude our little meeting with this promise—”

He leaned in close, the smooth whiteness of his mask just a breath away from Barbara’s face. He leered, and she could see his crinkled eyes hidden in shadow. With a soft, hissing whisper, he breathed, “I told you that I’d see you on your knees, little bat. And even if it is against your will at the moment, the day will come when you kneel before your Grandmaster willingly. _Gladly._ And so will your beloved Gray Son.”

“I’d rather _die,”_ she snarled.

Talon Orchard ripped his hands upwards, yanking Barbara to her feet with a muffled shriek of pain. Vanaver spun away, waving the drive in one flippant hand.

“Talon Rose, make sure this is destroyed,” the Grandmaster said, with a trace of humor. “We can’t have our secrets getting out into the open, now, can we?”  

A Talon stepped out from behind Barbara, and accepted the USB drive dutifully. He turned, then, and when he and Barbara made eye contact, she lunged forward. The only thing keeping her away from ripping the man’s throat out with her teeth was Talon Orchard’s savage grip.

 _“You were my brother, you son of a &!^$%!” _she screamed, as Orchard dragged her back towards the door.

Behind his amber lenses, Cal’s eyes were disinterested. Devoid of remorse or regret of any kind. He gave a blank hum. “And you were my assignment. Your point?”

And his tone…his voice…it was…

It was just _dead._

Jaw clenching, she tensed. Something hard and sharp and invisible pierced her sternum, sinking deeper and deeper into her chest. Tears bloomed in her eyes, and Barbara blinked them away with fury.

“Yes,” Vanaver crooned. “His performance _was_ quite convincing, wasn’t it? I’m afraid, my dear, that the Calvin Rose you once knew has been erased. Obliterated. He feels nothing now, really, aside from base instinct and loyalty—he is no one, and he is everyone.” The Grandmaster placed a hand on Cal’s shoulder, proudly. “We ordered him to keep up appearances, to act as he would have acted if he were still your…brother, you said? And it would appear that he was most successful. He had you hook, line, _and_ sinker, didn’t he?”

Barbara’s lips pursed tight against a sob. All she could do was glare at up the man in the owl mask.

“I’m entrusting this sweet young thing to the five of you,” the Grandmaster proclaimed, turning to the assembled men. “And our other partner, if he ever deigns to make an appearance. Do with her what you wish, so long as you do not render her incompetent. As we _discussed.”_ At that, he sent a pointed stare in Deathstroke’s direction. Slade could only shrug in response. So Vanaver merely shook his head and sighed, “Anything else is entirely on the table.”

“Oh, goody.” James’s grin was downright demonic.

The Talons dragged her back, pulling her from the room as she kicked and struggled in their grasp. She was battered, and bruised, and their earlier blows may have fractured a rib, but Barbara knew she had to move _now._

Her foot kicked off the floor _hard._ She sent her body curling up and back in an arc, and looped her legs around Talon Orchard’s neck—remembering his top heaviness in a flash of inspiration. Sure enough, he went down with a grunt. She flew to her feet, just in time to block the Taloness’s sweeping claws with her raised forearm. Their wrists slid together, and with her free hand, Barbara jabbed into the soft spot below the arc of her ribs. The woman doubled over, right into the knee Barbara pulled up sharply.

Both creatures were out for the count. No one else had moved. But Barbara didn’t stop to think _why_ that would be before she spun on her heel towards the door—

—and felt a fierce spike of pain flare in her neck.

Her entire body locked up. Muscles stiffened, joints stilled. And she toppled over, hitting the ground with one solid _thwump._ Barbara’s vision jilted as she hit the floorboards, and felt her skull crack against the surface.

Bringing her chin up—the only part of her that _did_ still work—she gazed right into the eyes of her attacker.

Cassandra frowned mournfully back.

The same thorn that Calvin had jabbed through her heart returned with a vengeance, twisting deeper. Barbara’s mouth opened, but no sound would come out. Eyes pleading, begging to know _why,_ she could only stare at the assassin girl with short, pained gasps.

Cassandra looked away.

“Well done, child,” Vanaver praised. Then, to Deathstroke. “I can see why your master recommended her so highly.”

The Talons were returning to their feet. If the stiffness in their shoulders, and the narrowed tilt to their eyes was any indication—they were very, very pissed.

“Now that _that’s_ out of your system…” The Grandmaster muttered. Then flicked his fingers through the air. “Take her away.”

Their claws curled around her biceps and lifted her into the air. And the first thing she noticed was that nothing— _nothing—_ would respond. Arms, hands, fingers. Toes, feet, _legs._ All were frozen stiff, in some strange, twisted, living-version of rigor mortis. And Barbara’s mind went into a white flash of sheer panic. A tight compress closed over her lungs, killing her breath before she could take it.  All she could do was feel her heart hammering in her chest, roaring in her ears, spurred on by the feeling of immobility. Whole-body _helplessness_.

Through the haze of flashing memories and her static heartrate, Barbara heard the Grandmaster’s low chuckle.

 “And please,” he said curtly, as she was dragged through the door. “Make sure that she suffers.”        

                                                                                                                                     


	29. Say Something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, this chapter contains things that may be triggering or unsettling for some readers. So with that in mind, please proceed with caution. Thanks!

 

 

_{“Are we all linked up?”}_

_{“Affirmative.”}_

_{“_ Affirmative.} Wally’s tone dropped three octaves. { _“Oh my &*#, you should hear yourself, Will. _Affirmative. _That’s how you sound. I mean, we know you’re a security guard in the real world, but man. You sound so freaking—“}_

_{“Look, Wall, everyone here knows you’re not exactly big into protocol, but at least try to act halfway mature.”}_

_{“Bill. Bro. Lay off my man for a minute, okay?”}_

_{“Tell him to lay off me!”}_

_{“We’re not starting this up again—“}_

_{“Can everyone just focus please?”}_

Dick rubbed two fingers into the skin between his eyes, wincing. Hearing his friends argue out loud was jarring enough, but amplified in his mind, it was actually worse. He’d be lucky if he managed to escape a migraine after this op.

The Team had been haunting the manor for the past three weeks, popping in and out intermittently. Some of them had jobs, others had families to grace with their presence, and a few even had the occasional League mission. But no matter how often they had to leave, they just kept coming back. Poking in to say ‘hi’. To check up on things, or bring offerings of fast food. Dick could tell it was starting to get on Alfred’s nerves, but he and his siblings didn’t complain. Especially since they were all well aware of the motive behind the random guest appearances: they were worried sick about Dick, and hadn’t heard from Barbara in weeks.

And, well…speaking of which…

The past three weeks had been absolute torture.

The day after the Birds had come by to throw their weight around and clean out Barbara’s room, Alfred had approached Dick carefully. Everyone else had left—the Team hurried off to their daily lives, and the other Bats had school to get back to (except Jason, who was wandering around upstairs somewhere). Dick had been curled up on the living room couch with an old book, pretending to read as he stared blankly at the pages. And when he looked up, he saw the old butler standing above him with a thin stack of papers in his hands.

“Master Dick,” he said gently. “I didn’t want to say anything while your friends were with us, and I surmised that your thoughts and attentions were elsewhere. But…my boy, the test results came back.”

Dick curled in on himself, even tighter. “I…” he whispered, his voice crackling like the pages he pretended to turn. He swallowed. “I already know what they’ll say, Alf.”

“But that’s just it.” Alfred slid the first page into his line of sight. “Master Dick, the results returned _negative.”_

With those words, time stopped.

Dick’s head shot up. “What?”

He squinted at the ink on the paper, letters swirling before his eyes as he blinked to clear away the bleariness. But…sure enough…

“As you can see—that woman might have taken a few hours of your memory, Master Dick,” Alfred’s hand settled gently on Dick’s shoulder. “And…Miss Barbara’s confidence, I suppose, though I loathe to say it. But that’s all. She took nothing else from you.”

Some hybrid of relief and shock burst inside of him. It was like he’d been carrying a backpack full of cement, and Alfred had finally helped him slip it off his shoulders. And yet…there was still a creeping sense of confusion that wouldn’t leave him alone.

If nothing happened… _nothing_ happened…then why would Raya go to all the trouble…?

Almost immediately after he heard the news, he texted Barbara.

 **DICK –** I know you hate me rn. But can we please talk?

Hours passed, and there was no reply. Days went by.

Then he tried again:

 **DICK –** I got tested, Babs. Nothing happened.

In the five days that followed, Dick kept up the hope that she’d reply. He sent message after message, each growing more and more frantic than the last. Desperation bubbled up inside of him every single time he impulsively checked his phone.

On day nine, Stephanie sat them all down for a family meeting. She paced between the couches and chairs, sidestepping the coffee table and waving her hands in the air.

“Something’s wrong with Dina,” she pronounced.

Theories poured from her mouth. Facts, memories, inferences—all of it cascading out in a blurry rush. Whatever she said must have made sense; Jason’s jaw was tightening as his eyes widened, Damian was sitting stock straight in his armchair, looking ready to hit something, and Tim’s face had gone incredibly pale as he nodded in silent, realizing agreement. Whatever evidence floated around the room must have been extremely off-putting.

But whatever it was, Dick didn’t hear it. His eyes were glued to his phone, and everything else was just static.

The messages went on and on in a constant ribbon down one side of the screen. They spanned over several days. Then a week. Then two.

 **DICK –** Barbara, baby, please, I will do *anything* if you’ll just talk to me.

 **DICK –** You can’t just ignore me!

 **DICK –** WHERE THE #$%% ARE YOU!?

 **DICK –** I’d give anything for a five minute conversation. Please. Just answer me baby.

 **DICK –** After everything? All the #$%% we’ve been through together? Is this really the worst? Why can’t you just talk to me?

 **DICK –** IF YOUD JUST LET ME EXPLAIN I WOULD TELL YOU EVERYTHING

 **DICK –** That’d make one of us, at least.

 **DICK –** Barbara, please. Please just answer.

 **DICK –** See this? This is me trying? To actually meet you halfway? That’s how relationships work, you know.

 **DICK –** If you’d just talk to me, for once, we could work this out.

 **DICK –** I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean those last few. It’s just

 **DICK –** I’m going out of my mind.

 **DICK –** It’s been weeks, babe. Will you just…let me know you’re okay?

 **DICK –** Why do you have to hide everything? Babe, I’m trying. All I’ve ever done is try. And if you don’t try too, then what’s the point? There’s $#!^ we both keep to ourselves, and that’s fine, but I can see it *hurting* you, and you don’t know what that does to me. I can’t handle seeing you in pain, because I love you. I love you so much. And when you love someone you just want to fix everything that’s wrong and take away everything that’s hurting them. I just…I only wanted to help.

 **DICK –** I’m sorry if I overstepped. I’m sorry that I pushed you away.

 **DICK –** But you’ve done your fair share of pushing too. And if you want me gone? I can respect that. Even though it’ll hurt like #$%% I’ll respect that.

 **DICK –** Today Damian tried to call you. Did you answer him?

 **DICK –** If this is your way of telling me to %*&# off, then I’ll %*&# off.

 **DICK –** I will. But first, babe

 **DICK –** Please just let me know you’re there.

For the first two weeks, there was nothing. Suspicion began to blossom like one of Poison Ivy’s more noxious creations, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something must have happened. It was a swooping, terrible feeling just like the one that had settled in his gut the first morning he’d woken up in Barbara’s bed without her there beside him. And worst of all, it hit him at the most unexpected times. He’d be minding his own business, eating breakfast or watching TV, when all of a sudden it _hit_ him. Like a crowbar to the gut or a bullet to the chest, or a knife, or a club or…

It was…it was just _pain._ And it made his hair stand on end. His breath stilled in his lungs, and he could feel nothing but a searing sense of urgency. To leap up and find Barbara. Save her. Protect her. At any cost.

Dick had been brushing his teeth on day thirteen without Barbara, when it hit him again. He leaned over to spit out a mouthful of sudsy toothpaste, reaching to turn off the faucet. He straightened, looked in the mirror. Then a sudden punch to the sternum had him doubling over, a gasp of pain ripping out of his throat.

His eyes lifted, painfully squinted, to the mirror.

And he could see his irises glowing golden.

_{“Hey, man. How’re you holding up?”}_

Wally’s gentle tone snapped him back to the present. Dick could feel the others waiting silently for him to respond, too.

His eyes swept the circus tent. People either milled around impatiently, or scurried back and forth under the weight of boxes and packed-up supplies. Shouts of encouragement or frustration were tossed through the air. Animals were herded past, followed by performers or employees carrying whatever they could lift.

The Team had stumbled into the circus on Moving Day. With all the urgency to get here, put on a few shows—and then suddenly drop everything, pack it up, and get the #$%% out? If Dick had any reservations about where to place his suspicions, before…

And because it was Moving Day, infiltration was a cinch. In all the confusion, it was easy to hit a few performers and staff over the head and steal their uniforms. (They’d been careful enough to tuck the poor people into one of the trucks, behind some of the elephant feed. Dick was pretty sure no one would find them before they had the chance to find what they needed and get the #$%% out, themselves.) Wally and Roy were both sporting the grey jumpsuits worn by the maintenance crew. Zatanna blended seamlessly in with one of the showgirls’ glittering costumes, complete with a sequined mask so sparkly, no one could see her eyes. Dick and M’gann had both lifted the identities off two notable performers—Jimmy the clown and Stella Ricci the aerialist respectively. Miss Martian had her shape-shifting, and Batman made use of a cyber-mask, courtesy of the BatCave.

Kaldur, Artemis, Conner and Roquelle were all running interference—covertly letting the air out of tires and sabotaging engines to stall the circus’s getaway. They were also standing by, ready to jump in if anything went wrong.

_{“Dick?”}_

Dick started. Then winced. _{“Yeah. Yeah, guys, I’m good. Let’s just get this over with, okay?”}_

He could always tell when they’d cut him out of a conversation. At his side, M’gann’s face twisted subtly, and Dick heard no accompanying words in his head. He shrugged it off; if they wanted to psychically go back-and-forth about their questions and worries, let them.

He was used to radio silence, after all.

His mind flicked back to the second day of the third week…

…when Barbara replied.

 **DREAM GIRL –** Undercover Dick. Don’t bother me.

It was abrupt. It was cold. He could practically _feel_ the anger coming through those little white words on his screen.

But they’d still made his heart burst with glowing relief.

 **DICK –** Babs!!

 **DICK –** Please call me when you can, we need to talk

 **DREAM GIRL –** What honestly makes you think I want to talk? You said it yourself: %*&# off.

And that had been it.

Dick and M’gann crept towards the flap, and wound up backstage. There were fewer people back here, but still enough that Dick was grateful for their disguises. He could see Zee across the way, leaning against a stack of crates as she listened to the other showgirls’ gossip. They briefly made eye contact, and he watched her chin dip in a slight, subtle nod. Dick returned the gesture, and swept the rest of his surroundings for—

There.

He hadn’t expected to see her so soon, but sure enough, Raya Vestri was walking towards them. Her footsteps were small shuffles, and she hugged the tent wall as she moved past. A threadbare robe was tightly tied over her sparkly leotard, bare feet sticking a little to the floorboards. Miss Martian must have noticed the way that Dick stiffened when the aerialist came into view, because she stopped short, and scowled over at him.

_{“Okay, no. We’re not making you do this. It isn’t fair. Kaldur?”}_

_{“I do not know if we can—”}_

Artemis chimed in _. {“Miss M’s right. Take off the mask, Dick. Anyone else wanna play the clown? Will?”}_

_{“Ha. Ha. Ha. Y’know, Arty, one of these days I’m gonna snap, and—“}_

_{“No,”}_ Dick thought forcefully, returning M’gann’s sour look. _{“It’s too late now for a costume switch. Besides, we’ve been over this. I’m the only one who knows the territory inside out—and I know Jimmy, so I’m the only one who’ll be convincing. Besides. M’gann and I are the only ones who know Romani, so if we need to—“}_

 _{“I know Romani.”}_ Conner’s dumbfounded protest broke through Dick’s thought process.

He sighed. Out loud. _{“You learned grade-school Romani from a couple of shoulder goblins, SB. Not enough for what this mission might entail. Can you guys just…trust that I know what I’m doing?”}_

He could feel the flicker of guilt spike through everyone else’s consciousness. Most of them had known Dick for years, ever since he was their skinny little pre-teen Robin.  It was easy to underestimate someone who still had a few of his baby teeth. And as he’d gotten older, joined the Team and met the rest of them, it’d never gotten easier to put their doubts to rest. Being the youngest and smallest member of a superhero squad had its drawbacks, after all.

But Dick _had_ shown them—time and time again—that he was just as capable, if not more, than they were. He was a Bat; it just came with the territory. How many times had he saved their collective *$$#$? How many times had he proved them all wrong?

He knew they still felt bad about it; for all the times they’d shuffled him off to the side or treated him like a kid, just because he wasn’t a meta like them. And, normally, he wouldn’t stoop to exploiting that guilt for his own ends.

But, let’s just say, Dick Grayson had had a rough couple of weeks.

And, apparently, so had Raya Vestri. Her eyes were haunted and unfocused as she trailed past them, heading down the walkway, and turning a tented corner. Dick met M’gann’s gaze and let his eyes go narrow.

_{“We’re pursuing.”}_

_{“No, we’re not, we’re—“}_

Dick’s eyes were almost slits. _{“You wanted intel on Haly’s? This is how you get intel on Haly’s”}_

 _{“Nightw—Batman is right, Miss Martian.”}_ Kaldur’s input was a soft and calming presence in their minds. _{“He has the experience needed for this mission, and we should defer to that expertise. Proceed with extreme caution, but proceed all the same.”}_

 _{“Go get ‘em, guys.”}_ Wally chimed in brightly.

M’gann silently groaned.

But, regardless, they followed.

Raya led them around a few more corners, and out one of the emergency exits. They drifted between the trailers and stands, and trucks and carts, until the trio finally wound up outside a small portable building. It had a low, tiled roof, and three tiny rectangular windows peeking out through the plastic siding. Dick recognized it on sight; during tours, the portable served as Jack Haly’s private office. Perfect for handling affairs—and stowing paperwork, itineraries, and anything else a spy’s heart desired.

Raya climbed the short stoop, legs dragging as if she were climbing Everest instead, and laid her hand on the knob. At the last second, she turned—catching sight of Dick and M’gann just a few strides behind her.

There was no gasp of shock, and no suspicious frown pulled at her lips. But a stark line appeared between Raya’s pale brows as she rasped, “Hey, guys. You’re right on time.”

‘Jimmy’ and ‘Stella’ shared a brief glance, then nodded, trailing after her as she pushed open the door.

Dick wasn’t surprised to see Bryan sitting behind Jack’s desk, even though the image had a certain ‘wrongness’ to it, like everything in the room had been shifted slightly to the left. It should have been Jack sitting in the rickety wooden chair that was older than just about anyone in the circus. It should have been Jack shuffling through the papers on the desk with a tight frown. The Haly frown.

Yes. Dick expected to see Bryan in the room. And seeing Angelo Ricci, leaned against a few of the filing cabinets with his wiry arms wrapped around his midsection as if fighting off a violent stomach ache, admittedly didn’t come as much of a shock either.

But Dick and M’gann both stopped short when they saw the two burly Talons standing in the center of the room like behemoths.

As one, their heads twisted towards the three newcomers—eerily owllike. They were imposing; dressed in full black and brown and bronze regalia, and bristling with gleaming blades. Enough to perforate any unwelcome guests.

M’gann flinched slightly under their piercing gaze, but Dick only clenched his teeth.

Bryan glanced up, then, and his eyebrows twitched towards his hairline. “Oh. Good. You all made it.”

 _{“Your heartrates both spiked,”}_ Conner’s voice broke through the fog of panic in their minds. (Well, Dick wasn’t panicking, but he could feel the anxiety rolling off M’gann in waves.) _{“What’s going on? M’gann?”}_

 _{“Talons,”}_ Dick told the others, managing to keep up a poker face. _{“Stand by.”}_

 _{“More on the perimeter.”}_ Artemis added. _{“At least a dozen. Maybe more.”}_

_{“Monitor, but do not engage. We will wait for them to show their hand.”}_

The flurry of apprehension that spread through the mental link almost made him lose composure, but Dick stuffed his hands in his pockets, letting himself fall into Jimmy’s lazy posture. “Yeah, Bry. All good. Now, we gonna start this thing, or what?”

“Hn,” one of the Talons grunted. She shot Dick an unamused glance, eyes narrowed. “Yes. Let’s.”

Bryan nodded, but his uneasy frown stayed fixed in place. “’Kay. But, as agreed, no masks. Security reasons, and all that.”

“Do you have reason to believe that our security is inadequate?” the Talon lady snapped. “We are not imposters, you—”

Her companion reached out and wrapped a set of bronze claws around her wrist, silencing her protests. “What’s the harm? I _personally_ am a fan of the way they all flinch like scared little mice.”

She stared at him for a few seconds, before letting out a weary sigh, then a hum of agreement. Both Talons reached up, snagged the crowns of their cowls, and slipped them from their heads. Hair fluttered out of the way, and shockingly pale skin was exposed to the air.

The woman’s face was narrow and sunken, black veins spiderwebbing under her skin. Dick could recognize Asian leanings, but the features had mostly withered; hers was a face that had died decades before.

And the man—

Dick sucked in a breath.

John Richard Grayson was older than he remembered; in Dick’s mind, his cousin had never aged past fourteen. But John’s gangly limbs had filled out with Herculean muscle. His short, slight frame had sprouted upward and outward like a tree’s trunk; thick and powerful (though admittedly not as much as the other Talon Dick had come across, Talon Rose). John’s movements were almost feline—smooth and practiced, just like a trained acrobat’s—but his gaze was wolf-like. Any trace of the blue Grayson eyes had been scrubbed away, and John’s irises had been bleached golden.

Those eyes snagged on Dick, lingering for a second, before they trailed to Haly. “Like what you see?”

Bryan’s throat bobbed. Then stammered, “I-I don’t believe you’ve been introduced to Jimmy. Raya, you obviously already know. S-Stella and her brother Angelo, too, but—”

“This is my compatriot, Talon Saito,” John said, matter of factly. Then, with airy, prideful decorum, “And I am Talon Grayson. We are…pleased to make your acquaintance.”

M’gann once again went rigid, eyes snapping over to him. _{“GRAYSON—“}_

_{“My cousin. Don’t react.”}_

“Good. Now that pleasantries are out of the way,” Talon Saito snapped. “Can we please move on to business? The Court only has so much time to spare, and we are expected back before nightfall.”

“Of course! Of course.” Bryan rifled through the papers desperately, searching and scanning as his eyes twitched over the pages.

But it was Raya who spoke up.

Eyes downcast and voice lowered to a breath above a whisper, she said, “We did it. Everything you asked. We drove the wedge between Kean and the Gray Son. We… _I…_ —” Her voice cracked with a stifled sob as she pressed a few fingers over her mouth.

Haly’s expression pinched as he glared up at the Talons. He seemed to have finally found a little resolve. “She followed your instructions to the letter. We all did. _So._ Now you keep your end.”

“Indeed?” John purred, lifting one eyebrow.

“ _Indeed,”_ Bryan shot back. “We agreed that the Court would pull out and leave the circus alone forever. No more extortion, no more bullying, and no more zombifying our kids. That…and you give us back Jack Haly.”

M’gann was reaching out to Dick silently, the same alarm bells going off in both their heads. But Dick had been trained in impartiality—when you observed, you _observed._ Drawing conclusions this early would only impede their mission. Judgements and analysis were for later, _after_ the information had been gleaned. React to soon, too impulsively, and you risked losing the bigger picture.

John cocked his head to the side. It was a decidedly avian gesture. “Now, now, Bry. You know I’m just as averse to ‘zombification’ as you are—I mean…just look at me.”

Bryan and Raya both flinched.

“You know, it could have been _you_ that was handed over to the Court like a consolation prize. Or you, Rai. Maybe not Jimmy—I doubt clowning would have been of much use to the Court.” John waved a dismissive hand, and bared his teeth. “But no. It was _me._ Which, if you think about it, wasn’t really all that fair.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Bryan said, face twisting with something akin to guilt. “But that’s done. Over with. What does it have to do with—”

John threw up a clawed hand. “Oh, it has everything to do with our agreement, old friend. What happened to me wasn’t _fair_. What happened to Talon Saito wasn’t _fair_. Nothing that has happened to any of us has been _fair._ And now, it is with _great_ pleasure that we share that unfairness—that sinking feeling you get in the pit of your gut when you realize just how _un_ fair it all really is—with you. Our brothers and sisters in the circus. The ones who escaped our fate. You get a free taste of injustice.”

“What are you—”

“We came today to tell you that your efforts are most appreciated.” Talon Saito shot an annoyed scowl at her partner, then nodded serenely. “The Court thanks you for your sacrifice.”

Bryan shot to his feet. The papers on the desk fluttered in the gust created by the sudden movement, and everyone in the room tensed. Haly’s eyes were wild, but he managed to keep a lid on his outburst. “That’s right, we’ve sacrificed! We’ve sacrificed, and sacrificed and _sacrificed!_ Now where’s—”

“But,” Saito’s voice clipped above Bryan’s angry blustering. “We also come bearing solemn tidings.”

“The Court agrees that you have been most cooperative,” John picked up easily. “Our foreign representatives have given us nothing but glowing reports—”

Angelo nodded, straightening. M’gann hurried to follow his lead, hiding her confusion admirably.

“—but we’re afraid that we’ve also received reports that Miss Vestri did _not_ follow our instructions to the letter.”

Every eye in the room snapped to Raya, who stumbled backward, chest heaving with a gasp. Dick watched her eyes fly open wide as she stammered, “What are—what are you talking about? I—of _course_ I—”

“You administered the drugs,” Saito breezed, her tone suddenly switching to something much more pleasant. The honey in her voice was almost more unsettling than the steel. “But you did not follow through.”

Bryan’s face paled. So did Raya’s.

She threw up her hands, pushing them outward as if she could ward off the pair of Talons. “I—what does it matter? I drove the wedge! Kean and your Gray Son are separated! That’s what you wanted!”

“True, true.” John took a step forward. He would not be warded off so easily. “But the Court is not so much concerned with _that_ as with the fact that you disobeyed. And so—”

“—the Court of Owls has decreed their initial agreement with the Haly’s Circus null and void.”

“They will take their generational champion, along _with_ the Gray Son. And as for the rest of you, well.” John’s wolfish smile turned downright sinister. “The Court of Owls has sentenced you all to _die._ And we, the Talons, are more than happy to carry that sentence out. How’s that for fair? _”_

Blades slid from the Talons’ wrists, twirling in their hands with metallic swishes that cut through the air.

Dick and M’gann shared one more glance. Then nodded.

_{“Team, move in now!”}_

Miss Martian slammed her hands together, and the Talons flew into the filing cabinets. A mighty crash punctured the grim silence. Dick surged forward, snagging Raya’s wrist, before he went for Bryan’s. But the Talons were already getting up. A blade _fwshed_ through the air, and Dick felt a smarting sting slice across his shoulder.

“Get out of here,” he told the two circus members, as he shoved them toward the door.

“What? J-Jimmy?” Bryan floundered. But Raya pulled him out of the building with a terrified, piercing scream.

Innocents safely out of the way, Dick turned back to the Talons. They were crouched in a predatory stance, ready to lunge and go for the jugular. Angelo stood demurely off to the side, watching with disinterest. If what the Talons said about him being a ‘foreign representative’ was true…

John’s teeth were bared. “You’re not Jimmy.”

“No $#!^.” Dick reached up and pressed a finger to his temple. The mask flickered as the false image of Jimmy’s face died off, and both Talons tensed.

“The Gray Son,” Saito said reverently, shoulders lowering.

“Dickie,” John purred, grin pulling up at his lips.

“That’s right,” Dick told them, as he slid the escrima sticks from the hidden holsters under his shirt. The feel of the rods in his hands was a desperately needed comfort. He stared his cousin in the eye, and grit his teeth. At his side, M’gann slid into a defensive stance, hands raised to the air, eyes glowing green as her form flickered back into Miss Martian.

“And you,” he said coldly, “are toast.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Her breathing only came in short hiccups…head spun like a carnival ride…heart hammered like a dialed-up metronome…and the pain…her vision almost went white with it…

But those were just distractions. That’s what Barbara told herself as she pried the grate off the wall with her fingernails. Two feet by two feet—she’d worked with smaller, before. And after three weeks of miniscule portions and running for her life, fitting wasn’t about to be her most pressing problem.

She squeezed her tongue between her teeth, wincing, and cradled her right hand closer to her chest. With the other, she slid the grate aside, and swung herself into the ventilation shaft. But patters of distant footsteps pricked at her ears, and her heartrate sped up to a low buzz. Barbara bit down harder on her tongue, hurriedly pulling the vent cover back into place. Fingers still wrapped around one of the grilles, she froze as the footsteps moved closer. Any staggered breathing that wobbled from her throat was held preciously close.

Two pairs of boots—standard Talon issue—flickered past. They were on their patrolling march through the halls of Harbor House, timed just perfectly so that they’d stay out of the sight of visitors, but be readily on hand for security or whatever else a passing Courtier might require. But right now, they were clearly on a mission—

“She’s slipped her chains again,” one grumbled to the other.

The other made a sound in their chest that was halfway between a growl and a warble. The sound reminded Barbara of an angry cat. “The Grandmaster will not be pleased.”

“That assumes he would be surprised in the first place.”

The increasingly distant voice demanded. “What is this—five times, now?”

“No, brother. _Eleven._ But fear not. We will find her again, and punish her most _severely.”_

Their footsteps faded, and Barbara released her breath. Then scowled.

_Like #$%%._

Idiots hadn’t even thought to check the vents—even though this was the sixth time she’d used them. Wordlessly, she slid down. Her hair fluttered across her face. Bare feet slid against the slick, freezing metal, and her free fingers trailed above her head in desperate attempts to slow her descent. On attempt number one, she’d underestimated the drop and broke her leg at the bottom of the shaft. Unable to hold back a scream, she’d broadcasted her position to anyone within earshot of an air vent. Which, really, was the entire Court.

This time, though, she was careful. She knew how far it was to the bottom—twenty-five feet—then how far it was down another branch of the ventilation system, then another, then another. She knew which areas to avoid (because of their proximity to heavily-utilized rooms, or due to the presence of spinning fans) and had memorized the place where the shaft began an upward climb.

There was a spot where the metal was weak—it had torn a little. On attempt number three, Barbara had bloodied her hands widening the gap, but discovered the pain to be worth it when the hole opened up to a small breeze. Once she squeezed through the space, mindful of the sharp edges, she discovered a small drop into a dark, dank underground tunnel—the sewers beneath Harbor House and above the Court’s hidden underground complex.

The Gotham City sewers were a place that Barbara was (unfortunately) familiar with. So from there, finding a manhole cover had been a piece of cake.

Now, on attempt number six, she followed the same route. Wound up in the same stretch of the sewers, plodded through the same shallow stormwater to mask her trail, and wrapped the fingers of her good hand around the first rung of the second ladder she came to. She was banking on the fact that she’d used this method of escape before—it was such an obvious route, that maybe her captors would consider other possibilities before this one. (Barbara wasn’t supposed to be _this_ stupid, after all.)

Even so, she passed up the first ladder, because it led up to the street in front of Harbor House. Attempt number three had ended in Barbara being hit by a car. She could still remember the crunch of metal and bone before it all went dark. Attempt number four had resulted in a flock of Talons descending on her location, snatching her out of the public view before anyone could see. (Well… _almost_ before…)

With any luck, something better would be found behind manhole cover number two.

She thrust her good hand up, pushing away the metal disk with a grunt of effort. It was heavier than it would have been three weeks ago, but she could brush that fact aside as easily as she could the stinging pain in her right hand.

“Nngh,” she groaned, pulling herself up into the fresh air.

Barbara rolled onto the rough pavement, shoulder blades crunching uncomfortably against the lumpy surface, and dared a quick glance around. She was on a secluded side street. The storefronts here lacked windows, and sported only printed signs and the occasional freight truck. She was three streets over from Harbor House, and on the fringes of Gotham’s industrial district.

When the chilly afternoon breeze brushed her cheek, Barbara almost burst into tears. Her fingers lifted towards the sky, flexing in the brilliant sunshine. It warmed her skin, and the balmy sensation alone almost reduced her to hysterics.

Slade, James, and the others had kept their promise to the Grandmaster—the last three weeks had been a living #$%%.

Barbara had always thought that #$%% would be fiery and bright. Filled with glowing embers and smoke and ash, and populated by little red devils with curling tails and spiky horns.

But she was wrong; #$%% was a cool metal table with leather straps. A cold, dark closet with stone walls, and bloodstains— _her_ bloodstains. It was scalpels dragged through flesh, needles slipped into veins, mind-numbing drugs, sensation-amplifying drugs, and skimmed rations. #$%% was death, over and over, and _over_ again until the sensation of her soul being peeled away from her body had ceased to faze her. Barbara had pictured glowing embers, and was instead faced by glowing green water dredged from the depths of the Lazarus Pit. She’d imagined populations of little demons, but the demons didn’t have horns—they wore stark white bird masks, and loomed over her when she was in the thralls of misery. Poking and prodding and asking for status reports over the sounds of her broken screaming.

Barbara had long ago lost count of how many times she’d died under Slade’s fingers, or James’s knives, or Strange’s injections. And she’d stopped counting.

She’d stopped a lot of things.

But she’d never stopped trying. Every now and then, her torturers had to turn around, and when they did, she slipped out of her restraints. Slid out of her cell. Ducked through security. And Barbara had almost escaped fourteen times— _not_ eleven, like that Talon had suspected—since she’d been dragged to this place three weeks ago. Seven times she’d made it outside. Five times, she’d died in the attempt. But no matter how impossible the task seemed, she’d &*#% well keep trying until something stuck.

Barbara pressed her left hand into her ribs, feeling the ridges even through the flash of blinding pain the movement caused. Briefly, she wondered whether they were more pronounced than when she’d been taken. Until she saw a mirror, though, she wouldn’t be able to tell for certain…

_Enough. Time to move._

Barbara struggled to her feet. Wobbled. Almost sank to her knees as fuzziness pulled at her vision and pounded into her skull. But she fought off the nausea. Took one weak step. Then another.

Then, she ran.

Her bare feet slapped against the pavement as she moved through the shadows cast by the afternoon sun. A nighttime escape might have been better in any other circumstance—but Talons saw better in the darkness.

Up ahead, there was a street corner. A car swished past, engine rumbling. Barbara could see a couple walking their dog, a woman breezing past on a bicycle, scarf flapping in the wind. Civilians living their ordinary everyday lives, unaware of the labyrinth of horrors that lay beneath their feet.

But, much more importantly, Barbara saw an ancient payphone.

It gleamed in the sunlight, blue and faded, but twice as brilliant as any jewel. It stood there, waiting for her. A prize to run towards, a last-ditch hope to strive for. She’d make it in a few more seconds at this pace. Calvin had taught her a hundred years ago how to twist off the plastic speaker cover and rewire the phone to allow her to call free of charge. She’d dial the manor. Maybe Alfred would pick up—she’d hear his smooth, comforting voice telling her to hold tight and wait for help. Maybe Jason or Tim would answer, and Barbara would struggle not to cry as she heard them exclaim and demand to know if she was alright and how they could help. Damian would be shell-shocked and timid. Stephanie would start chattering. Any of their voices would probably be the best thing Barbara had ever heard in her life.

But…if Dick’s voice was on the other end of the line…

That was a stake to the heart.

She didn’t deserve to talk him. It would be like hearing sunshine, instead of just feeling it on her skin. His voice would be like ambrosia coursing through her veins, comforting and low. Drowning out the screams in her head, and smoothing out the sharp edges of her own terror. It would be better than freedom. Better than salvation. Better than _anything._

But she knew—she _knew—_ that if she heard his gentle voice on the other end of the line, her voice would die and her tongue would stick to the roof of her mouth, rendering her silent. Her heart would stop, or possibly explode.

Because what she did to him? It was _unforgivable._

Would he hang up? Maybe tell her she’d dug herself into this hole, and now it was her job to climb out of it? That was what Slade had hissed into her ear nearly every morning—that even if she did get out, what made her so sure that Dick would want to see her again? After…after what she’d done? What made her think he’d even take her back?

What made her so sure that any of them would?

Her steps faltered for half a beat. But then she picked up the tempo. Those were things she could worry about later. _Later._  When she’d esc—

Something thin and metallic snagged her throat. A choked gasp burst from her lips as she fell from her feet. Barbara sailed backwards, legs flung into the air, and she let out a cry when her back slammed against the asphalt.

Her vision burst with starry glitter, and another gasp let some oxygen back into her throat. When she blinked the bleariness away, she looked up at the blue and white sky—and saw the pair of honey-colored lenses goggling back down at her.

Barbara’s free hand crept up to the wire snare around her neck, eyes trailing to the other end that Calvin Rose held in his clawed fist, and they widened when he raised it higher. She choked as she was dragged up to her knees. Fingers scrabbled against the wire as she gagged, struggling for some brief trickle of air.

The claws wrapped around her shoulder—long since healed by the Pit water, and so that, at least, wasn’t something he could use against her. The pressure on her trachea disappeared as the line went slack, and Barbara heaved a desperate gasp.

Cal’s grip tightened as he pulled her closer, edging her onto her feet and away from the street corner and back into the side street’s seclusion. Any other time, Barbara would have screamed, put up a fight, _anything._

But attempt numbers four and five had both had witnesses. Three innocent bystanders that the Talons they sent for her had dispatched mercilessly. Barbara could still feel their blood speckling her skin when she remembered their—

Her eyes squeezed shut as Calvin dragged her back towards the manhole.

She wouldn’t go back there—she wouldn’t let them take her—take—she wouldn’t—

In one last Hail-Mary play, she blurted, “Cal _. Cal._ If you ever felt anything for me— _ever—_ then I am _begging_ you. Turn a blind eye. Just let me get to that payphone. And then—then I’ll go with you. I won’t fight this anymore.”

He fixed his cold golden gaze on her with no hint at having ever felt anything at all. He blinked, slowly, eyes twitching a little from the sun’s brightness. Then he cocked his head to the side; it was a tic that Barbara had learned to associate with the Talons like she’d associate a wagging tail with Titus. It signified confusion, curiosity, smugness, jealousy, anger, intrigue…basically, any faux emotion a Talon was still permitted to be capable of.

And when he spoke, Barbara pegged the emotion as boredom, with a little but of confusion tossed in for flavor.

“You still think of me as the boy who found you in the gutter.” His head cocked to the other side. “I can assure you, Barbara—he’s no longer in here.”

She clamped her tongue in between her teeth, then tried again. “That—that isn’t true.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I see you, Cal,” she hissed through bared teeth. “Every time they tie me up or strap me down, I _see_ you. You watch them do it, and I can see your eyes tracing every single knot, every single lock… _everything.”_

“I don’t—”

“And you know—you know _exactly_ —how you’d slip out of them. And you know that I know it, too.” She pulled weakly against his grip, to no avail. Even if she was up to full strength, he could still outdo her if it came to a physical fight. Barbara shook her head from side to side listlessly, letting her hair fall over her face.

“If you’re so loyal to them…like you keep telling me…then why don’t you ever tell them what you see?” Her voice broke a little. “Why do you keep letting me get this far…just to drag me back?”

His cowl shifted in just such a way that she could tell his brow was furrowing beneath the cloth. “I don’t—” he repeated, almost spluttering. It was strange to see the crack in his demeanor. “You can’t ask me to—”

“Payphone,” she breathed, good fingers wrapping around the wrist that held the snare. “ _Please.”_

Then, his eyes hardened. His grasp on the wire tightened as his arm flexed back, and Barbara choked. “You know I can’t let you do that.”

“Phhk— _please.”_ Her hand clawed futilely at the garrote, eyes blearing over. Was she going to die from this? Again?

“Follow me quietly,” Cal instructed, his tone flatter than the road beneath their feet. “If you come back to us, repentant, then perhaps they’ll allow you to avoid punishment this time. They’ll reattach your fingers—”

He nodded to the hand Barbara kept cradled to her chest. The last three fingers had been sawed away, leaving freshly cauterized stumps that stung with every subtle movement. A product of one of James’s more sadistic experiments—and one that only seemed to make sense inside that sick mind of his. She shook her head, pressing the hand deeper into her ribs.

“—and will perhaps lend you a day of rest.” He nodded to himself. “I will speak to them. Tell them that the bonds came loose and you were delirious from the pain. Wandered away, and found yourself out here—”

“They’d never believe it,” she whispered.

“They would if I _insisted.”_

Calvin kicked aside the manhole cover like it was made of plywood, and thrust a gesturing hand towards the hole. Barbara ducked her head, and lowered her body into the darkness. Eyes glancing up towards Cal’s hardened gaze, she licked her lips and managed a weak,

“But why? Why would you insist?”

He blinked a little, startled. “Because, I—because—”

Barbara’s free hand latched onto the first rung, and she began her descent. She knew she wouldn’t get a straight answer out of him; the best she could do was cause a short-circuit in his twisted little bird brain. He was either unwilling or unable to talk about their old life, his memories, or his motivation—the motivation that made him jump to her defense, or bargain for more rations or better conditions on her behalf. Barbara couldn’t explain it…but she _knew._

Calvin Rose wasn’t completely gone.

She…only wished she could be so sure about herself.

 

 

* * *

 

 

One nice thing about Gotham Academy was the staff.

They weren’t particularly great, or nice, or attentive, or anything. Most of the faculty were nihilistic cynics shuffling through the school day and counting the minutes until they could go home to their apartments, or pocket their paychecks. Really, it made sense; you could only work with the children of the rich and important for so long before you started to lose your will to live, just a little bit. Tim honestly had to admire their tenacity—these brave men and women dealt with the likes of Rafe Clark, Ben Vanaver and Stephanie Brown on the daily, and still managed to hold onto the shreds of their sanity.

Out of all the brave teachers at Gotham Academy, though, only one truly deserved a Purple Heart for their efforts: Mr. Carr.

He was the youngest member of the staff, fresh out of Gotham University’s master’s program, and so naturally got shunted with the worst jobs. Fieldtrip chaperone and lunch aide, to name a few. But most notably? Detention monitor.

And so, Mr. Carr was awarded the unenviable position of ‘overseer’ for Tim, Damian, Ben, and Rafe’s detention. The two jocks had gotten out of the hospital just before the two-week fall break, but now that the carefree time off of school was past, their sentences had to be carried out.

Tim and Damian found themselves sitting next to Rafe and Ben, ignoring their murderous scowls as they all tried to eat their lunches in silence. Mr. Carr was perched at the desk up front, flipping through an old World War One biography about some British general or another. The dry turning of pages and the sound of chewing were the only sounds allowed in the room (detention after school hours would be less strict, but during the lunch break, they had to keep quiet).

Tim’s phone buzzed, and he hurried to cover the noise with a soft moan around a mouthful of PB and J.

The others glanced at him, annoyed. Tim could only lift his sandwich a little, and smile.

“’S really good,” he explained.

One of Mr. Carr’s eyebrows lifted sharply. “I’m sure it is, Timothy, but right now, we’re going to enjoy the silence, alright?”

“Right. Sorry.”

Tim’s thumbnail flicked the switch on the side of his phone case, setting the device on silent. On a normal phone, it would still buzz audibly, but he and Barbara had messed around a little with everyone’s phones, and developed another setting; a _true_ silent mode, if you will.

He peered down at the screen.

 **STEPH –** A moment of silence for our POWs in detention.

 **STEPH –** Literally I guess XD

Glowering, he stuffed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth, and tapped his thumbs violently against the screen.

 **TIM –** you should be in here with us, traitor

 **STEPH –** Yeah, I know :( I’m really really sorry Tim :( :( :(

 **TIM -** *sigh* don’t be. You escaped to tell our story. Avenge us, Stephanie Brown

 **STEPH -** *salutes* I will sing your praises to all future generations!

 **STEPH –** Yeah, but srsly. We gotta coordinate, so lemme get Jay. Just a sec?

 **TIM –** aren’t you supposed to be in Stats rn???

They had a different lunch hour, which made things difficult when they wanted to do things like hanging out or discussing battle strategies.

 **STEPH –** Silly Timbers. The odds of me passing this class without ever lifting a finger? More likely than you would think. ;D

**_JASON has been added to the group_ **

**JASON –** ‘Sup &!^$#*$? ;)

 **TIM –** Steph and I are both trapped behind our desks, what are you up to?

 **JASON –** Being rad and feelin’ glad ;D

 **TIM –** Steph?

 **STEPH –** He’s staking out the Clocktower. Gotta neat little setup next door, don’t ya?

 **JASON –** Yep, got my scope, my snacks, my sleeping bag. Now all that’s missing is you ;)

 **TIM –** barf

 **STEPH –** Mm, well, maybe I’ll swing by after school, Big Red ;)

 **JASON –** Big Red, huh? XD

 **JASON –** That a nickname or an innuendo?? ;)

 **TIM –** double barf oh my &*# GUYS DX

 **STEPH –** Depends. ;) ;) ;)

 **TIM –** STOP

 **TIM –** seriously, is there a reason I’m in this chat, or should I just leave you guys to it? Cause I don’t have the stomach for this rn

 **STEPH –** Sorry, sorry. You’re right. We need to talk.

 **STEPH –** Jay, you’ve got the Clocktower situation under control, right? Any suspicious activity going down?

 **JASON –** From my very *limited* view, I can tell that BC and Huntress are in the middle of a catfight. Hard to see, though. And I have zero audio. Babs really locked this place down tight.

 **STEPH –** Yeah, it’s meant to be ‘impenetrable’. That means us too, I guess.

 **JASON –** Ooh. BC just &!^$# slapped Huntress right in the face!!

 **JASON –** OOH! Now LBH is getting involved. And Dove. Probs to keep Helena from going full Punisher on BC’s *$$.  

 **TIM –** Dina hit Helena!?

 **STEPH –** Huh. Well. Exhibit Z of THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE

 **TIM –** keep us posted, Jay. Steph, what’s your status on the Birds? Haven’t you been in contact?

 **STEPH –** Yeah, I’ve managed to get ahold of Dawn and Zinda, but they’re not talking. I think Dina’s got ‘em locked down tight.

 **TIM –** so what are we looking at, here? Mind control? Body double?

 **JASON –** I think she’s an alien. Like Invasion of the Body Snatchers kinda $#!^.

 **TIM –** have they heard anything from Babs yet?

 **STEPH –** Dawn says she’s still undercover. Or at least…that’s all Dina will tell them.

 **TIM –** so lemme get this straight. Babs is on a case, and the ONLY person she’s talking to is Dina??

 **TIM –** who, btw, is more than a little iffy rn????

 **STEPH –** You’re right, and you should say it. That is totes suspish.

 **TIM –** never, and I mean *ever*, say those words again

 **STEPH –** Jay, what do you think?

 **JASON –** He’s right, baby. Just say suspicious.

 **STEPH –** ABOUT THE CASE

 **JASON –** Oh.

 **JASON –** Idk just

There was a long pause. Tim watched the bubbles scrolling across the screen, and looked up at the rest of the room. Damian was side-eyeing him sharply; the kid probably had a pretty good idea of what was going on under Tim’s desk. (Probably miffed to be left out of the convo, too, but he’d left his phone at the manor.) And Rafe was scribbling something on a piece of paper. Ben’s head was down on the desk, cradled in his arms.

Tim’s phone vibrated noiselessly in his hands, and he glanced back down.

 **JASON –** I don’t want to say this, guys, but I’m thinking that something happened. To Babs.

 **JASON –** And that BC’s covering it up.

 **STEPH –** Explain

 **JASON –** Think about it. Not a peep out of Babs, except for ‘don’t bother me’ or ‘%*&# off’ when we text her. Plus BC’s mood. Plus the date. You’ve all seen the calendar lately, right?

 **STEPH –** Oh my &*#.

 **TIM –** it’s the 29th. Halloween…

 **JASON –** Is in 2 days. Right. And we still haven’t heard anything out of Barbara.

Halloween was a sensitive issue for the inhabitants of Wayne Manor. Tim still remembered when it had been just a silly holiday—an excuse to dress up in something other than the Robin uniform and hit the streets in search of candy instead of criminals. After that, there was usually a giant party for the Team and the Titans, where he could get together with his friends. Dance, drink some punch, prank his siblings. It was a good time.

Or at least, it had been, until a few years ago. Their family had been significantly smaller, then—Stephanie was recently dead, and Damian wasn’t even in the picture, yet. The other four had gone to the Watchtower party, and both Tim and Barbara had taken their leave early to go out on patrol. Tim had stuck by Batman’s side. Barbara had been sent home early.

And in the early morning of November first, they’d gotten word that the Joker had gotten into the house. Barbara had been shot and paralyzed from the waist down.

Every year after that, Halloween was treated with caution. Oracle would lock herself in her room at the Clocktower for the whole day, not letting anyone in except Nightwing. Bruce used to hover, concern for his eldest daughter palpable as he took time off patrol to stand outside her door, fingers hovering above the knob. Tim and Jason would sometimes keep him company. Parties were for suckers anyway.

Barbara would always be mortified when she heard they’d all missed out on the festivities for her sake.

 _“I’m fine,”_ Tim remembered her saying, once, _“It’s just a stupid…thing I have, okay? Now if you don’t all go dress up and trick-or-treat right now—no, Jay, I_ don’t _care_ _that it’s the 2 nd—then so help me, I will flood the Cave’s systems with so many viruses, it’ll take you weeks to untangle it all!”_

Barbara’s first Halloween back at the manor had been even more fraught. From what Tim had learned about PTSD, he knew that anniversaries were always difficult. Even more so when the victim was surrounded by reminders of what had happened—and really, the entire manor was just one giant reminder.

Barbara had gone non-verbal in the days leading up to the 31st, wheeling through the halls with a glassy look in her eyes. She’d jumped at any sudden noise, and had been struck with panic attack after panic attack. On the day itself, she locked herself in her room, once again, and the others could hear her sobbing through the door, interspersed with Dick’s soft affirmations.

 **TIM –** here’s what I say, then. We wait two days

 **STEPH –** What!? But she could be out there right now! What if she shuts down in the middle of a fight or smth???

 **TIM –** Barbara’s smarter than that. She’s not gonna put herself in a dangerous situation on Halloween

 **JASON –** Timbo’s right. She’ll find a way back home (CT or Manor) and lock herself up, no matter what. They’re her safe places, and she won’t bunker down anywhere else. We just have to wait for her to come to us.

 **TIM –** exactly. Halloween day, if she doesn’t show up at the Manor, we check the Clocktower. If she’s there, we stay put until she comes down, and gather everybody up for a serious heart-to-heart

 **STEPH –** And if she doesn’t?

 **TIM –** well, then we know the jig is up

 **JASON –** Yeah. But I say either way we confront BC and get to the bottom of all this weird behavior.

 **STEPH –** Amen to that.

 **STEPH –** Do you guys really think something’s happened to her?

Tim paused. Damian’s finger was tapping erratically on the top of his desk, and for a moment, the soft pattering sound distracted him from the thoughts racing in his head. There were almost too many to dissect. Definitely too many to assemble into a coherent theory.

But still, he typed—

 **TIM –** Barbara’s been through a lot, but I’m sure she’s fine. We don’t have all the facts yet

Was she fine? A breakup was enough to rattle anyone—Tim knew that from experience—and with everything else that their sister was shouldering…

 **JASON –** Barb’s tough enough to handle anything, babe. We’ll figure this all out.

 **STEPH –** Okay. I just…I have a bad feeling, is all.

A notification appeared on his phone screen, sliding over the text thread as it demanded his attention.

 ** _NOTIF FROM GCPD PRECINCT_** _,_ it read in bold black letters. Tim raised an eyebrow, but messages like these weren’t out of the ordinary. Every Bat got similar notifications from the GCPD. Thanks to Barbara’s hacking skills, they were wired directly into their alert system. So that every Amber Alert, request for backup, or emergency warning came directly to their phones. But it was the next string of letters that made his heart stop.

**_ALL UNITS ARE REQUESTED FOR IMMEDIATE BACKUP. PRECINCT UNDER ATTACK FROM THE JOKER. ASSAILANT IS ARMED AND DANGEROUS. PROCEED WITH EXTREME CAUTION._ **

Tim glanced up at Damian, and turned his phone screen so the younger boy could see it. The kid’s face blanched, all color leeching from his skin as he brought his eyes up to meet Tim’s.

 **JASON –** You guys seeing this?

 **STEPH –** No. What is it? Mr. Gupta took my phone!

 **TIM -** then how are you texting us rn?????

 **JASON –** Joker.

 **STEPH –** I

 **STEPH –** I can’t get out of class. Luka’s already got too many absences—I *will* flunk if I skip out.

 **JASON –** And Dick’s occupied. Tim?

 **TIM –** on it

He put his phone away, then shut his eyes. With a low groan, he doubled over and clapped a hand to his stomach.

Tim didn’t need to look, but he could feel every eye in the room snap over to him in an instant. His other hand clenched around the edge of the desk as he let out a weak whimper.

“What’s Tiny’s deal?” Rafe muttered.

Mr. Carr stood up, snapping his book shut. “Timothy, are you okay?”

Damian frowned, catching on immediately.

“Oh, &*#, it’s my…” Tim swallowed hard, blinking. The hand over his gut clenched, balling the material of his shirt between his fingers. Then with a swift glance at Damian, he let out another meaningful groan.

Damian’s chair screeched against the tile. He inspected his own sandwich, glancing back and forth between his almond butter and honey and Tim’s PB and J with steadily widening eyes.

“I must have grabbed the wrong sandwich!” he declared, voice tinged with mock-terror. “Drake has mine—he is allergic to peanuts!”

Bless his little brother for his quick thinking.

Tim’s face must have been turning and impressive shade, as he gasped and heaved for air to fill his fictitiously restricted airway, because Mr. Carr bolted from his desk, hurrying over. Even Rafe and Ben shared a panicked glance. Tim choked, gasping like a landed fish as he stumbled to his feet.

“D-Dami,” he heaved.

Damian snatched up Tim’s wrist and dragged him towards the door. “We need to get his Epi-Pen from his locker, Mr. Carr.”

The poor man’s face had lost all color. He seemed to be thinking for the thousandth time today that he wasn’t equipped (or paid enough) to deal with this sort of thing. “Do I need to call someone—?” he spluttered.

“Not necessary,” Damian snapped, dragging Tim out the door. “But if we don’t get that medication soon, Drake will go into anaphylactic shock, and shall require a hospital, so _let us leave.”_

If there’d been any blood left in Mr. Carr’s face, it swirled down the drain. The teacher looked about ready to pass out. “O-Okay, then.”

The door clicked shut behind them, and both boys took off down the hall. They broke out into a full-on sprint, shouldering past wandering students and faculty. Then, bypassing Tim’s locker completely, they bolted through the glass doors and out into the parking lot.

“Nice job,” Tim panted. His lungs still shook a little from the pretended choking. “I mean, I don’t even have an allergy, and even _I_ believed you for a second, there.”

“Yes, well.” Damian skidded to a stop next to the bushes that bordered the iron fence around the school. “I have been taking…acting lessons.”

“Really?” Tim’s hands scooped aside the crackly leaves they’d hidden emergency packs underneath. Inside each was a sleek box that was finger-print protected and &*#% near impossible to break. Inside _that_ were their uniforms, folded up and ready for use.

Once upon a time, Dick had told them that he and Babs had once hidden their emergency suits a little too close to the school. A group of students had found them, told a few teachers, and _boom._ The school went under total lockdown. All because of a few mysterious metal packages left out behind the gym. Bruce got a call about a bomb-threat, and showed up, frantic, only to find that his protégés were locked in their algebra class, scowling through safety procedures for a _totally_ nonexistent threat. After that…well, everyone was a lot more careful.

Tim checked over his shoulder, just to be sure no one was watching. They weren’t visible from any of the windows, and there were no groundskeepers wandering around, so they were safe.

He heaved a relieved sigh. Then, “Wait, acting? How come?”

“Tt. Does it matter?”

Tim shouldered the pack, and gripped the iron fence rungs in his fists. The metal was so cold, it made his skin prickle, but he ignored the sensation. “Yeah,” he muttered, “I mean, it’s great. We’ve all got our hobbies, and I guess it’s nice to see you…picking one up too?”

“Your appreciation has been noted,” Damian quipped, already halfway over the fence. “Now drop it.”

Tim followed, swinging his body deftly up and over the curved top of the barrier, and landed in a soft, papery pile of autumn leaves on the other side. Damian hit the ground just a second after he did, and glared up at him.  

“Why acting?” Tim asked.

“Why not?”

He guessed he didn’t have an answer for that.

The two boys ducked behind a few trees and hurriedly swiped their thumbs over the boxes’ scanners. From there, it took them a few minutes to suit up. And then a few more for their cycles to appear, summoned by the press of a button on their belts.

They didn’t speak as they drove through the Gotham City streets, weaving through traffic. They didn’t really need to; the words dangled in the blasting air between them.

Here they were—two Robins—about to face off against the man that had killed their Batman. Their _father._

But when they arrived at the precinct, the place looked gutted. Windows blown out and fires visibly shining through the gaps. Screams could be heard coming from the inside, punctuated by pops of gunfire. Red Robin and Robin both broke through the line of officers that surrounded the building. Some of them were fully alert, hands grasping at their firearms and batons as if praying they’d be enough to defend themselves. Others were crouched behind the squad cars, expecting a barrage of bullets or gas at any moment. And several more were holding blood-soaked bandages to their faces or skin, while even more officers tended to their wounds.

The Robins dashed in, ignoring a shout from one of the cops.

“You _insane!?_ You can’t go in there!”

Tim’s boot slammed against the door, and it flew inward. The bang was almost louder than the gunshots slamming through the precinct’s halls. As they swept inside, keeping low, they stepped over the bodies of fallen officers. Some of them were still alive, moaning or weeping. Others were still and unmoving, eyes staring.

Through the darkness they crept, doing their best to muffle their footsteps as they crunched through broken glass and fallen debris. Tim could see Damian flinch a little every time they heard a piercing shriek.

As soon as they rounded a corner, someone’s hand snagged Red Robin’s wrist. He tensed, and whirled, birdarang flashing as it clicked open in his free hand. But just before he could bring the weapon down on his attacker, he froze.

Renee Montoya, bloodied and battered, squinted up at them. Half her face was sticky with the streaming blood from a head injury, and her mouth hung open a little. Between that and the glassy eyes, Tim instantly guessed ‘concussion’, and hurried to help her lie down.

“No,” she gasped, gripping harder. “You hav-to get everyone out. _Now.”_

“Where’s the Commissioner?” Robin whispered.

“Joker’s…got’im in the bullpen. But—”

“Robin,” Tim barked. “Help Montoya get outside, and then start rounding up the survivors.”

Damian looped one of the detective’s limp arms over his shoulders, then scowled. “And what about you?”

Red Robin pursed his lips, and spun on his heel.

“Not on your own!” Robin snapped, stepping forward to follow. But Renee’s broken moan of pain gave him cause to hesitate. “Red Robin, get back here!”

“You can do this, kid.” Tim waved, hoping his voice sounded more encouraging to his brother than it did in his own ears. Before Robin could either react or argue, Tim bolted.

The halls were dark and smelled like fear—in every conceivable way. He almost slipped a few times on the slick bloodstains that spotted the tile. Tim knew the precinct like the back of his hand, but even so, it was difficult to navigate through the chaos. He stumbled upon a few gun-toting thugs in rubber masks and took them down before they could so much as blink. He found a few more cowering members of the building’s staff, and pointed them in the direction of the exits. And when he finally found the bullpen, he skidded to a stop.

Two people stood in the center of the room, boots atop scattered papers and broken debris. The lights overhead flickered, half of them shot out and half of them trying to compensate. And in the stuttering flashes, Tim glimpsed the Commissioner’s sweat-soaked face, the dark stain pooling between the fingers he held against his stomach—and the tall, slender man who stood over him.

“So good to be back in Gotham,” the slender man chuckled, nearly purring with delight. “And so good to be back at the GCPD. I’m just sorry that I couldn’t skin a few of your people alive like last time, Gordo. Time restraints and all that _jazz.”_

The standing man’s head swiveled on his neck.

Tim saw the teeth first—it was almost _all_ he could see. He could feel his heart stop beating in his chest, and the sound seemed to have been sucked out of the room. All except for the blood rushing in his ears.

Because the Joker stood amongst the wreckage like a specter. A grim reaper clutching a gun instead of a scythe. He stared at Tim through lidless, bulging eyes. And if it were physically possible, his grin would have stretched even wider. He was dressed in a loose blue mechanic’s jumpsuit, green hair slicked back with enough grease to drown somebody. His hands were wrapped in fingerless leather gloves, and in one, he clutched a pistol. The other grasped a stapler.

But, most nightmare-inducing of all—the Joker stood there, grinning over at him widely…with no face.

Tim could see every muscle twitch as the monster opened its mouth.

“Speaking of time limits—have a good look at your knight in shining armor, Jimbo! He’s everything a weeping damsel like you could ever hope for!”

On the floor, Gordon made a sound halfway between a ‘&*%# you’ and a gurgle.

The Joker’s head tipped a little on his neck as he turned bodily towards Red Robin. With a voice like sandpaper on a chalkboard, he said, “It’s so _good_ to see you again, Timmy-boy. I’ve missed you so!”

Tim pulled his staff from the holster at his hip, and pressed a button on its side. It extended with a smooth _snick_ that made him feel a little more confident about facing down this horrifying creature.

“Joker,” he said, and had to force his voice to keep steady. “Put the weapon down and step away from the Commissioner, or—”

“Or _what,_ little Timmy? You gonna poke me?” Joker leaned forward, teeth flashing under the lights. Tim could see his eyes now, illuminated by the blinking fluorescents. They were staring, unwavering… _soulless._ He threw up his hands, gun and stapler both pointed at the ceiling. “Oh, no, please, Mr. Red Robin, don’t poke me with your stick!”

“Joker, I’m warning you—”

The clown tipped his face to the sky and let out a wrenching howl. It shook the room, making Tim’s hair stand on end. His hands shook around the staff.

“Ah, like I said. So _good_ to be back!” Joker snapped, swinging his arms as he spun into a twirl. His boot squeaked against the bloody tile floor, and when he came to a stop, he was once again facing Tim, grinning profusely. “I was in town, boy blunder, and thought to myself, ‘hey, _why_ don’t I go and see my precious little sugarplum, _Babsy?_ ”

Tim grit his teeth, grip tightening around the staff.

“How is she, Timbo? Does she miss me? Miss me dearly? Miss me tender?”

“Go to #$%%,” he snarled.

“Now, now, I’m just asking! ‘Cause when I went a knockin’ at her door, nobody answered! Guess they know better now, right?” Another high, cruel bout of laughter. “And, wouldn’t you know it, but she even threw away my gift! Let the garbage men carry it away to _this_ dump! Buuuuuttttt…lucky for me, I’m _very_ good at finding things.”

He dropped the gun. It clattered to the floor, making Tim jump out of his own skin, but the weapon mercifully didn’t go off. With his now-free hand, Joker snatched something up off one of the officers’ desks. It was floppy in a stiff sort of way, and flapped in his grip as he brought up towards its head.

With a sinking swoop in the pit of his stomach, Tim realized it was the clown’s _face._

He could only watch—horrified—as Joker slapped his dismembered face against his skull. And then, his stomach lurched with adrenaline as the maniac slammed the stapler into his head once, _twice, thrice._ Again, and again, all around the bordering skin until the flap of skin and tissue that had been his face was once again attached to the rest of him.

Joker flexed his jaw, letting it hang open and twitch from side to side. He explored the mess with his fingers, smearing blood across the pale skin, then chuckled lowly.

“Well, hello again, beautiful!” he greeted it cheerily. “Missed you, too.”

Tim took a staggering step backward. “You sick son of a b—”

“Ah-ah, now, Timmy!” Joker wagged a finger at him, grinning underneath the face he now wore as a mask. Then took a step forward. Another. Slowly stalking towards him with the stapler still clutched in his curled fist. With another low giggle, he growled, “You and I both know I’ve always been _sick.”_

He gripped his staff harder, swinging it into a defensive position. “Not like this.”

Joker shrugged cavalierly. “True,” he said, then darkened. “But what can I say? I’ve been a little… _off…_ ever since you got the Bat killed.”

Tim’s frown deepend. “No, we—”

“ _YOU TOOK HIM AWAY FROM ME!”_

The Joker’s scream split the air, his jaw practically unhinging like a snake’s. On the floor, Gordon froze as his eyes bulged. Tim stumbled away, shaking as he struggled to bring the air into his lungs.

Even the clown’s chest heaved as he measured his breaths. Trying to calm himself down. With a shuddering sigh, he threw his hands out to the side, and cocked his head. The smile returned as if it had never left.

“As you can see,” he breathed, still struggling to calm his breathing. “I’m still just a tad off course.”

His hands dropped, and he moved so suddenly that Tim jumped. But instead of stalking towards him, the Joker just turned tail and began walking _away._

And it was stupid—the kind of stupid that Tim really should have been above, by now—but he chose that moment to speak up. To snap, voice carrying through the gutted bullpen,

“You didn’t kill him.”

Joker stopped short.

He didn’t even bother to turn around as one single word hissed out of him. _“What?”_

“You didn’t _beat_ him,” Tim snarled, clutching onto his bo staff for dear life. “And you didn’t _kill_ him.”

For an eternity, everyone was dead silent, and still as the grave.

Joker didn’t laugh. Tim didn’t think it was funny, either.

The clown seemed to be thinking through a thousand things at once, or maybe nothing at all. It was impossible to say, just by staring at the back of his greasy head. His shoulders’ tight pull and tense lift, though, told Tim that it was best to step lightly now that he’d reached the edge.

And when the monster spoke again, his voice oozed through the air like toxic waste.

“You…” He spoke the word as if he were considering all of its many facets. “ _You…_ you know something I don’t, don’t you?”

Tim’s gloves squeaked a little as his grip on the staff tightened.

“Hnnn. Well, then.” His head turned, and now, his glassy snake eyes were on full display, sending a shiver skittering down Tim’s spine. Over his shoulder, the clown tossed out a simple, “I suppose we’ll be seeing much more of each other in the future, won’t we, Little Timmy?”

Tim did his best not to choke on his own tongue.

“Though…I _do_ need to see to my sweet little lambchop first. But! _After_ …after works just fine for me…” He turned again, stalking off into the shadows. His voice grew dimmer and dimmer and dimmer as his shape dissolved into darkness. “I’ll come back for you, little bird…never fear…I’ll sort it out…I’ll sort everything out. All I need is just a little…more…time…”

And then he was gone.

Tim screwed his eyes shut, and shook his head. It was hard to shake away the clown’s haunting laugh, but he managed to bring down his own heartrate. Just in time for the Commissioner to let out a wheezing gasp.

Tim’s eyes snapped open, and he surged forward. “Jim!”

“Tim,” Gordon rasped, flinching as Red Robin’s hand came down on his shoulder. “I’m sorry you…had to see all that.”

Tim checked the wound, then pressed a hand to the comm in his ear. “Sorry, Commish, but the man bleeding out on the floor gets a pass on apologies. Hello? Robin? What’s your status?”

Damian’s furious tone clipped back that he was fine, and that he’d gotten everyone out of the building, ‘ _no thanks to you’._ Tim nodded to himself and assured the kid that he’d be out in a jiff, just had to grab the Commissioner first.

Gordon wrapped a hand around Tim’s wrist, shaking his head.

“Shot me in the spine,” he gasped. “Just like Barbara. Said he wanted me to know how it felt—that it was all my fault it happened, and—”

“—and he’s playing on your conscience, Jim.” Tim helped the Commissioner to his feet, pulling the man’s arm over his shoulder to keep him steady. “Can you move your legs? Good, you’ll be fine. We both know what happened to her wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Except _his.”_

Jim Gordon shook his head listlessly. His words were beginning to slur, and his eyelids started to flutter. Not good signs; Tim had to hurry.

“You don’t know,” the man cried, voice cracking as he dipped his chin in shame. “You don’t know what I did.”

Tim’s eyes locked on the exit, and he limped forward, dragging Gordon’s weight alongside him.

“You’re right, I don’t,” he grunted. “But I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do right now—I’m gonna… _hng…_ get you to a medic.”

The doors weren’t far now. He could see Damian on the other side of the cracked glass, rushing forward. So Tim sped up, panting underneath the older man’s weight.

“It’s going to be okay, Jim,” he promised softly. “It’s over.”

Neither of them really believed it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Barbara had never been alive or conscious when she was taken back the way she’d run. This time, though, she was both—and the view wasn’t exactly scenic.

As she and Calvin plodded through the shallow water and down the dark, echoing tunnel, Barbara passed the time with one of the only ways she knew how—weaponized small-talk.

“So when did you get to Dina?” was her first question, and it came out in a weary huff of breath as Cal dragged her along behind him.

His legs swished through the water, arms swinging at his sides. He moved with purpose, like a robot that had been programmed with pre-set actions. This was the first opportunity since her capture that she’d be able to speak with him one-on-one. But he stared straight ahead into the green colored darkness that stretched before them, and at first, Barbara wasn’t sure whether or not he was going to give her an answer. Not that she really expected one in the first place.

But then, with a tilt to his chin and a slight hesitation in his step, he muttered, “Not long before we got to you.”

“How?”

Either telling her didn’t matter anymore, or Calvin didn’t care whether it did. “A device. I was instructed to gain her trust, and then get close enough to plant it. It is…similar to the one implanted in the base of my skull, but more temporary. Inserted into the ear canal. It’s—”

“One of Roulette’s…” Barbara’s eyes twitched wider at the thought. Then, she scowled. She would have kicked herself if she wasn’t worried her shinbone might shatter. At the moment, she was feeling a little too breakable for self-derision.

“Yes.” Calvin’s reply was clipped and simple. But she’d gotten more out of him than she ever would have expected to. So, Barbara figured, if she’d managed to push her limits this far…why not push a little harder?

“You planned it all out from the start, didn’t you? Told me my family was in danger, and that this was the only way to help them. That the Court _knew_ who we are under the masks. Was it all lies?”

His head wagged from side to side. “No. We may not know all of the Bats yet, but we know who _you_ are. We know the Gray Son. And we are quite certain that Bruce Wayne was the Batman—at least before his tragic demise.”

“You’re all &*^%$#^s.”

“True enough. And so is this: your little brood is most _certainly_ in danger. However…I’m afraid they are quite beyond help, now.”

She almost tripped and went face-down in the sewer water when Cal sidestepped a loose chunk of cement, but recovered quickly. Then, she wet her lips with a dry tongue.

“The Court,” Barbara said, voice quiet, but amplified by the space around them. “I know they take a Talon from the circus for every generation…Loong, Orchard, Turner, Jonas, Carver…and so many more of their people are here. But…this time they took John… _and_ you? Do…do you know why?”

This time, Barbara wondered if she had crossed a line. Calvin’s silence hung heavier around them than the musty tunnel air. They turned a corner and walked for a ways, saying nothing, with only the echoes of the sewer to break up the quiet.

Then—

“I do know.” Calvin’s footsteps slowed a little, but maintained a steady pace. Barbara bit her lip and listened for the rest. “I know that the Gray Son of Gotham was supposed to be delivered into the Court’s hands. I know that Bruce Wayne intervened, and as punishment, the Court demanded John in recompense. But Haly refused them. In his place, _I_ was offered up. In truth, it was Haly’s design all along to train me, to groom me, and then to trade my life for the Gray Son’s. Just as he had trained others to take the place of John Grayson senior, and his father before him.”

Barbara nearly tripped again, this time from the sheer weight of that revelation. It hit her like a brick to the face, and she couldn’t help it when her jaw dropped.

“Jack Haly would _never—”_ she started. But Calvin swooped in to cut her off.

“Jack Haly _did._ Just as his father did, and _his_ father before him. Ask any of the others. We were all brought into the circus under false pretenses, and raised to be sacrificial lambs for the slaughter. Lambs that the Court accepted because the Grayson line could not be over-harvested. But…this time… _Ach._ Never mind, that. The ringmaster was a fool.” His voice jilted a little, like the words put a bitter taste on the Talon’s tongue. “He should have known that the Grandmaster would not be slighted. He was outraged— _insulted_ —by the ringmaster’s offer, although he did recognize that I was not without potential. And so, he punished Haly by demanding us both. The Court collected John’s body. Talon O’Malley was sent to take me, kill Dina Lance—for the Court cannot abide metas within its domain—and, when they heard that the two of us knew the whereabouts of the last Gotham Kean, he was sent to find and acquire _you.”_

“And why is the ‘last Gotham Kean’ worth all this trouble? Doesn’t the Court just want its Gray Son? Why take so many other Talons?”

“Is there a particular question you’d like me to answer first?” Calvin asked dryly.

“Sorry.”

“You’re important,” he continued pulling her along. “Because of your bloodline.”

Up ahead, she could see a steel door that most certainly led upstairs. They were reaching the end of this little trek through the sewers.

“The Keans are famously bloodthirsty, Barbara. Nearly all of them have had an impact on this city’s history, but none greater than your namesake, Barbara Kean, the self-proclaimed ‘Queen of Gotham’.” Cal’s grip tightened on the wire, and he dragged her along a little quicker. “She, in particular, was deemed a viable threat. Her parents were high-ranking Courtiers, and after she murdered them, a power vacuum threatened to tear our ranks apart.  Then, she went one step further by declaring an all-out war with the Court.  Your aunt was determined to smoke us out of the shadows and depose the Grandmaster so that she alone would rule Gotham. But she failed. The Court sentenced Barbara Kean to death—though not before they vowed to claim the last of the Kean name before she could continue her aunt’s work.”

“So,” Barbara muttered, “This is payback. For what she did. I’m the Court’s pound of flesh—unless they see me as some sort of threat?”

“You flatter yourself. We both know that you are merely a rodent to be crushed beneath the heels of their boots. But…perhaps. The Court does not take risks, after all.”

She sighed. “I gathered as much.”

“But then, you _are_ the Gray Son’s chosen partner. That also gives you great importance in the enactment of Operation Red Queen.”

“And what is that, exactly?” No one would tell her. But if she had a dime for every time she’d heard that phrase dropped in the last few weeks…she’d be richer than Abraham Vanaver himself.

Cal clammed up, probably furious with himself for letting so much slip. The reply he _did_ give her was clipped, and laced with venom. “I am not authorized to divulge that information.”

“Of course, you’re not.”

“Just…” His shoulders tensed, head jerking slightly. “Know this: the Talons are dying, Barbara. We are becoming an endangered species in this city’s ecosystem, and it is only a matter of time before there are none of us left to carry on the Court’s grand mission. Only you can save us. You, and the Gray Son together.”

They’d reached the door. Cal’s claws clicked against the handle as he pulled it open, and ushered her inside. Before and above them stretched a spiral of stairs that led up, up, _up_ so far, that a weary, shaky groan leaked past Barbara’s lips. But, one sharp nudge from the Talon behind her was enough to spur her onward and upward.

One step. _Up._ Another…another. At first, the effort it took to drag her feet to each stair was no more noticeable than every other step she’d taken that day. But three floors later…

“You won’t have…your Gray Son,” she wheezed. With each passing stair, her chest cavity seemed to grow just a little tighter. She felt like she was suffocating—the air felt thin and her head spun like a top. “He’s…he’s too smart to…to fall for your…trap.”

“You mean, like you did?” Calvin scaled the staircase with ease, boots plodding steadily against the concrete. It was _disgusting_ how effortless he made it look. “I would not be so sure. After all, Barbara, _you_ are the trap—”

She literally rolled her eyes. It was the stuff of crime-fighting 101. Honestly, Barbara would have been surprised if she _wasn’t_ cast in the role of ‘Designated Bait’ at this point. She only wished that the Court’s plans would have been so obvious to her, before.

“—and the Gray Son always falls for you.”

Not if she had any say in the matter. Barbara grit her teeth. “If…If I were you, I…wouldn’t be so… sure…either.”

“But I am.” And from his tone, Barbara knew he meant it. She was falling behind him on the steps, and so he gave her a ‘helpful’ yank upwards. “You are mates. He will come. He cannot help it.”

Barbara stumbled, and it wasn’t only because of Calvin’s sharp tug on the tether around her neck. _Mates?_ Her eyes darted up to his, and she blinked indignantly, raising one hand to press against her forehead. “No, Cal. It’s not like…we’re not…”

She’d learned a lot these past few weeks—more than she’d ever wanted to know—about Talons. Between ‘training sessions’ (when they released her into the maze and watched her fight her way towards a fountain basin—the only source of water she was given) where she bantered with the assassin creatures, and through careful eavesdropping, finding what she needed wasn’t too difficult. Barbara learned how Talons came to be, how they behaved, how they _felt_ things without actually being allowed to ‘feel’. The Court had engineered their emotions, and handcrafted their responses during the conversion processes. So that things like anger or jealousy were constructed. Manufactured to _look_ like human emotion, but they fell _just_ short of actual authenticity. The Court imbued their little toy soldiers with programmed reactions, most likely to make themselves feel better about being constantly surrounded by creatures that were no longer anything more than killing machines. A pathetic attempt to humanize what was no longer human.

Barbara wasn’t entirely sure that a Talon really felt any real emotions, at all.

And ‘love’ was just one more on the list of emotions that the Court’s scientists tampered with. ‘Lust’ might have been a better description—it was instinctual and animalistic. Barbara didn’t know why, and had no clue what purpose it served, but the Talons had a tendency to bond in monogamous pairs. The bond was strong, even if it _was_ the effect of chemicals and brainwashing. She’d fought dozens of the Court’s warriors in escape attempts and in her maze runs. Every time she wounded a Talon, though, another would come at her with unchecked rage and fury. These ‘mates’ as Cal called them, were hardwired to defend their partner to the death. (More often than not, they _did._ Barbara had once landed a kick to Talon Loong’s sternum that sent him down hard, and his ‘mate’ Talon Saito had ripped out her throat. It took half a day to revive her from _that_ death.)

As far as she knew, Cal didn’t have a partner. Which was interesting, to say the least, because he was almost like the Talon’s captain—first in command after the Courtiers. And it wasn’t like she hadn’t heard the longing in his voice whenever he talked about Dina—and seen the attentive way his eyes followed Talon Turner with her shifting steps and her smooth, swaying movements.

But, _he_ thought that she and Dick—

Barbara shook her head. They were close, sure. They always had each other’s backs and best interests at heart. She’d die for him, and he for her, but at the end of the day…

They were just partners, weren’t they? Barbara used to think that they’d take that final step in their relationship; a promise to be together for the rest of their lives. To have and to hold each other, until death did them part. And the thought—the _hope—_ of having that, of finally putting an official name to what they already were, and living it…

Heh. What were the chances, anyway?

It didn’t matter what she wanted—all she cared about was what _he_ did. And Barbara had always been too afraid to bring up the subject, scared of pushing too far. And Dick had never really…sure, he’d _hinted_ at maybe someday…

But whatever _someday_ might have been—she’d ruined that, hadn’t she?

Relationships were built on trust—and she’d decimated whatever trust they’d had. Not only had Barbara kept everything from the one person she could have relied on completely—she’d—

No. He’d never forgive her. Not after everything she’d done to him.

Calvin insisted. “You will see.”

Barbara shook her head, and looked up at the entrance to the sublevels below Harbor House. They’d reached their destination. Just a few more minutes until she wound up back in her cell or on the table. Maybe if she was lucky, they’d decide to feed her something today.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jason clicked his tongue, leaning back in the BatComputer’s chair. “Soooo…” he moaned out, tipping back a little. “We gonna…start this little pow-wow or…?”

Damian scoffed from his perch on the desk. He’d situated himself in a little space he’d cleared between the piles of charred wires and broken plastic. “Tt. This is not a pow-wow. Don’t be culturally insensitive, Todd.”

“Right, well, look who’s talking,” Jason mumbled. He ignored his youngest brother’s rising hackles and turned to the third member of the assembled group, who was pacing impatiently nearby. “Timbo, when are we…?"

Tim glanced up. “Just waiting on—”

“ _I’m here!”_ Stephanie flew into the cave, blonde hair streaming behind her. She still wore Luka’s face, but the hands scrabbling at the edges of the cyber mask were hurrying to rectify that fact. “I’m here, I’m here. Sorry!”

“Where were you?” Damian demanded, eyes narrowing. The kid was still in his blood-soaked Robin uniform, and looked like he’d been to the gates of #$%% and back. And, really, from what Jason had heard on the news about the precinct massacre…he probably had.

Whatever the case, Damian didn’t look like he was about to accept any excuses short of the near-death kind, and Tim seemed to be on the same page. His hands clasped behind his back, and his teeth had a firm hold on the inside of his cheek. He seemed… _shaken._ Jason didn’t know how else to describe it. But if Damian looked like he’d been to #$%%, Tim looked like he’d just signed into a lease for a condo there.

Turned out, though, that Steph did have a &*%# good excuse.

“I got invited out for drinks.”

“You’re not of legal age,” Damian said, at the same time that Tim burst out with a, “So? We agreed to meet after detention. Which went ‘til five. That was two hours ago!”

Steph blinked, then pressed her fingers together as she took a deep breath. Jason tossed her a sympathetic frown, and she caught it with a short nod. Then, “Can I finish?”

“Tt.”

“Fine, whatever.”

“By all means, beautiful.”

“ _Thank_ you,” she sniffed. Then, “I got invited out for drinks with _Samantha Vanaver and her friends.”_

There was a pregnant pause.

Then Jason snorted. “You mean the chick Timbo’s been banging?”

“ _Watch_ your language around the tiny people!” Stephanie hissed through her teeth, eyes darting meaningfully towards Damian, who only scowled.

Tim, though, was turning as red as his uniform. “I…it was one time!”

“Yeah, yeah, we know. But spill, Steph. What happened?”

“Well, I’m glad you asked.” Steph waved her hands as she continued. “So I’ve got AP Stats with Samantha, right? And after class, she corners me by my locker with a few of her friends and asks if I wanna go out and get drinks with them. I said ‘sure, why not’ because I remembered what you guys said about her dad being a possible member of the Owls, and figured, ‘hey, why not go do a little reconnaissance-ing and snag a free smoothie at the same time? Two birds with one stone, and all. Oh, yeah, and by the way, we grabbed drinks from the soda shop on main, _Damian,_ so there was no under-age-type stuff goin’ down. And Sammy paid, so that was a bonus.”

The boys shared a glance. Once Steph got going, there was no point in stopping her.

“So we’re sitting inside at one of the booths, since the outside tables were _freezing._ And, I mean, it didn’t take very long for me to figure out that I only got the invite ‘cause I’m the ‘cool foreign-exchange student’, right? They all wanted to know about Vlativa and you’d best _believe_ I was thanking my lucky stars that I spent all that time third-wheeling around with Gar and Perdita on that one Team mission last summer, and when I said that I actually knew the queen, they all flipped out—it was pretty amazing, honestly. So! I took that nice little subject, and steered our convo towards knowing people in high places. I pegged Sammy Vanny as an attention-hog from the start, and lemme tell you, I was _so_ right. She started bragging about how her parents were higher-ups in the city’s social pyramid, etcetera, etcetera, and—”

“She told me the same thing,” Tim cut in, scowling. “So?”

“ _So?_ I got a little bit more than pillow-talk, boy wonder! Turns out her friends—Emily and Mercedes—have connections to the Owls, too.”

“How do you figure? You could have misinterpreted—”

“Because they _said_ that their daddies are in charge of a secret society?” Steph said with a wide smirk. “And that’s pretty much word-for-word. Try misinterpreting _that,_ why don’tcha? _Anyway!_ So I was all ‘secret society? What secret society?’ and Sammy looked like she was ready to freaking _murder_ them. And she was about to shut the whole conversation down, and maybe play off the ‘secret society’ thing, but then I mighta sorta mentioned that I’m in one, too.”

“What?” Jason snapped.

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t mean…?”

“That I told them the capital-S _secret?_ Nuh-uh, boys. What do you take me for? _Honestly._ No, I told them my dad was in the…European chapter.”

Tim dragged a hand down his face and let out a soft groan. “No, no, _no,”_ he breathed. “Steph, we can’t verify that there even _is_ a—”

“Except, Timmy,” Steph cut in, suddenly a hair more solemn. “I kind of…accidentally… _did.”_

Three jaws practically hit the floor.

“That’s right,” she continued on, spinning on her heel as she began to pace. “I dunno if there’s another Court of Owls in Europe, or what, but when I said, ‘don’t worry, I know what you mean, my father’s a member of the group in Vlativa’—and that’s a direct quote, you can quote me on that—they _instantly_ chilled the eff out. Then eager beaver Sammy, once again determined _not_ to be one-upped by the incredible sleuth that is Luka Novak, dropped one more megaton nuke: _her dad is the Grandmaster.”_

“Grandmaster?” Jason sat up a little straighter in his chair. “You mean, like, the leader? The boss?”

Steph snapped her fingers and pointed at him. She wasn’t smiling anymore. “Exactly. But that’s not all. She also let it slip that there’s some big thing brewing—they’re saying the Court of Owls is meeting in a few weeks to talk about it, but they wouldn’t give me any specifics.”

Tim’s hand went back to his face as he spun around, pacing alongside Stephanie. Jason might have laughed at the two of them—they looked pretty dang ridiculous, marching back and forth in sync like that. But then they met in the middle, and each jabbed a finger in the air as their faces lit up.

“But they will!” Steph crowed.

“Because you’ve got an in!” Tim’s grin was triumphant. “You have to convince them to let you in on this little meeting. And once you’re in—”

“—we’re all in,” Jason mused, getting to his feet. “That could work. That…&*#%. We just found our way inside. We can put these guys down just like every other lowlife—even the playing field.”

“Hn.” Damian joined them, boots thudding against the floor as he hopped off the desk. “I suppose I should congratulate you, Brown. You are not entirely useless, after all.”

Steph’s hand shot up into the air, grin never wavering. “Know what? I’m too jazzed to spazz, lil’ D! Gimme some!”

Hesitantly, Damian tapped his palm against hers.

“But,” Jason said, “You had something to tell us, Timbers. Something about…did you say ‘a note’?”

Tim’s laugh suffered a sudden stroke.

His recovery was shockingly quick; Jason watched his shoulders square up, his fingers curl into fists, and his jaw set firmly. Tim’s throat bobbed with a forced swallow, then he nodded, and said, “Y-yeah. I—”

The roar of the Batmobile’s engine drowned out whatever Tim might’ve said as it screeched into the Cave. Black marks streaked across the flooring as it skidded to a stop. The top of the car flew off, and Dick, Will, Zatanna, and Kaldur burst out. Wally was close behind, appearing beside the vehicle with Artemis held bridal-style in his arms. Conner, M’gann and Roquelle touched down nearby. They looked…crispy. Their clothes were singed and torn and bloodied—but the blood itself, Jason noticed, was sleek and black, like the calligraphy ink in that fancy bottle on Bruce’s old desk. The kind that Alfred used to write formal letters, and Jason used to coat the ends of all his sibling’s binoculars. (Black circles around the eyes didn’t have quite the same aesthetic appeal when your victim was also wearing a domino mask…but it was the principle of the thing.) The OG Team was breathing hard, faces set into determined scowls.

And all of them marched forward as one.

For a few seconds, the Bats just stared openly at the sudden swarm of metas in their Cave. Five seconds after that, they noticed the hulking, human-sized chunk of ice that Kaldur and Conner were dragging behind them. It scritched and groaned against the tile before they let it rest right in the center, just a few bare feet away from the gaping Gothamites. Inside the frozen block, Jason could see swatches of dark color in the vague shape of a human being.

“Start thawing him out,” M’gann ordered, taking a few sweeping steps around their new ice sculpture.

“Holy $#!^, is that a _person?”_ Jason demanded, jabbing a finger at it.

They didn’t even acknowledge that. Kaldur surveilled the piece with a critical eye, and nodded. “Indeed. Once he is able to speak, we will determine what he knows.”

“Perfect.” Artemis was already sharpening one of her crossbow bolts. She looked to be the most bloodstained out of the bunch—and for Dick’s blood pressure’s sake, Jason really hoped it wasn’t _human_ blood. (It didn’t look human, but then…it was pretty dark inside the BatCave.)

And, speaking of Dick’s blood pressure…

He stomped past everyone, heatedly dumping his escrima sticks on the nearest surface. They clanged against the metal, and rolled onto the floor with a clatter. But Dick didn’t even react—just kept on marching towards the elevator.

Jason took a step forward.

“Don’t,” Zatanna said, gently. She swiped a thumb over a black stain on her cheek. “He…needs some time.”

As the elevator doors slammed shut, Damian demanded, “What happened?”

The Team shared a Look.

Jason knew the Look—he didn’t like the Look. He let out a rumbling, cautionary growl, crossing his arms over his chest. Out of the corners of his eyes, he could see the other three following his lead. Best not to start letting the metas think they could just waltz in here and keep their secrets like they owned the place. Especially not when those secrets pertained to Dick Grayson.

“Tell us,” Stephanie said, voice low.

It was M’gann who spoke, lowering her gaze sheepishly. “There were…complications. A few members of the Circus were…”

“They were dirty.” Artemis snarled as she tightened her grip on the bolt. “Those people practically _raised_ him, and they sold him out. Unbe _lievable.”_

Will’s frown was somber. “There were a lot of creatures—Talons?—and we almost didn’t beat them back in time for the rest of the performers and staff to get out safely. We…we lost a little girl.”

Stephanie’s hands clapped over her mouth, eyes going round with horror. “Is...did she…?”

“She’s alive.” Conner sounded downright melancholy. “But they took her. Dick’s…he’s pretty torn up about that.”

“Not to mention,” Wally added, jabbing a finger towards the chunk of ice with an expression of bitter disdain, “We found his long-lost evil cousin, Frosty the Owl-Man, here. So, yeah. How was your guys’s day?”

“S****y,” Damian snapped, raising a lot of eyebrows. “Very, very s****y.”

“I’ll go get him,” Tim said softly, already on his way to the elevator. A few of the Team members moved to stop him, but the force of three separate Bat-Glares was enough to stick them in place.

Tim stepped inside, and waited for the doors to slide closed before he pressed his finger to the button.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Upstairs, the lights were out, and all was still. Tim stepped out into the hall, and felt a shiver travel down his spine as he craned his neck towards the ceiling, then around corners as he padded towards the stairs. The manor took on a creepy vibe at night, when everything was turned off and tucked away. Tonight, Alfred was seeing to some business with his sister—the one visiting from London—and so no one else besides Tim and Dick were in the house.

Tim beelined straight to Dick’s door, and knocked quietly. He waited for the tell-tale sound of footsteps on the other side, or the sound of his brother’s breathing. Anything.

But no sounds escaped through the thick wooden door.

Tim opened it cautiously, peering inside at the darkness. The black of the room’s shadows was sliced through with a sliver of moonlight peeping through a crack in the thick curtains, but other than that… Nothing.

Immediately, Tim felt like an idiot. He hurried down the hall to Barbara’s room.

His knuckles rolled across the wood, and with his nose almost pressed against the surface, he gently called out, “Dick? It’s me.”

For a second, there was nothing. Tim wondered if he’d miscalculated—

“It’s open.”

The door was heavy as he pushed it inward. Tim found Dick sitting on the edge of Barbara’s bed, hunched over with his arms dangling across his knees. All he could see was his older brother’s silhouette against the navy-blue light that filtered through Babs’s windows, head hanging in defeat.

Tim stepped inside, then settled onto the empty spot right next to Dick. He didn’t dare breathe for fear of breaking the fragile silence that hung in the air like a funeral shroud.

But, silence didn’t get anyone anywhere. Not in this family. So—

“Hey,” Tim said quietly, just above a whisper. “I…heard you had a rough day.”

Fingers clawed through Dick’s messy curls, and the man let out a shuddering breath.

“Yeah.” Tim turned his head to stare forwards, towards Barbara’s empty closet. The door hung open, so that it’s lack of contents was on full display. “I get it. I mean—” He started a little, tensing up. Then, “—I mean, I don’t _completely_ get it. Not really. But…I do know what it’s like to lose someone you care about. Multiple someones.”

Dick bit down hard on his lip, and rested his head in his hands. “Yeah?” he asked, rasping.

“Yeah,” Tim said again. His fingers tapped idly by his sides. “Yeah, like…Steph. You remember the Gang War, right? I couldn’t save her from Black Mask. He took her before I had the chance to help, and…I blamed myself for a long, long time.”

Dick said nothing. So, Tim prompted, “What was her name?”

He swallowed, fingers clenching tighter across his scalp.

At first, Tim didn’t think he was going to say _anything._ He wondered if he’d crossed some sort of line, overstepped his bounds, or whatever. He wasn’t good at this; who was he kidding? It was always Alfred who handled the comforting pep talks. Him, or…or Babs…

But Dick surprised him with a soft reply.

“Christina.”

“Who was she?”

“Acrobat. She’s…she’s _nine years old,_ Timmy.” Dick drew in a shaky gasp. “One of the Talons grabbed her during the fight and made off, and—we weren’t fast enough to stop it. There were too many. But as soon as they had her they all just… _left_.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“What are they going to do with her?”

“I don’t know.” Tim reached out and laid an arm across his brother’s shoulders. “But I do know that we’re going to get her back safely. Steph found us an in. I promise, Dick, we’ll do whatever we can.”

That didn’t seem to make Dick feel much better.

They just sat in the ensuing silence for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the house settling and the wind blowing outside the window. Barbara’s room was situated on the back half of the west side of Wayne Manor, so that it looked out on the backyard, and the thick cluster of dark trees that crowded the edge. Tim stared out the window for a while, watching for any signs of movement. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because the trees themselves seemed to have eyes hiding in their twisty blue shadows.

It wasn’t just the girl’s abduction. Tim could tell there were other problems weighing heavily on Dick’s mind. Probably his cousin.

“I also lost my dad,” Tim told his brother quietly. Hesitantly. “He was killed, practically right in front of me. I didn’t get there in time to save him.”

Dick tensed a little. Tim knew this was a sensitive subject, but he pressed on.

“And, I mean, sure, we had our differences—he liked money, and I liked morals, and all that—but…he was my dad. And even if he didn’t love me…I still loved him.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re going somewhere with this?” Dick huffed. His voice was dry.

“Because I am. You couldn’t save Christina, but that’s not your fault. Besides, there’s still time to help her.” Tim shifted a little closer to his brother. Dick liked closeness when he was being comforted. Even if it was a little weird for Tim, he could give the older man that much. “You watched your cousin die…and now he’s back. And trying to kill you. I can’t pretend I know what that’s like, but…maybe there’s still some way to save him? To fix him and…and I don’t know. But we’ll figure it out.”

There was one more. And Tim didn’t know whether or not he should bring her up—but then the words were tumbling out of his mouth before he had the chance to stop them.

“I also know what it’s like to lose someone you love to dishonesty and miscommunication.”

He meant Tam. And they both knew it. But Dick tensed like he’d touched a livewire, and shook off Tim’s arm with a deadly scowl. When he whirled, Tim could see his irises glowing poison green in the dark.

“Yeah, well,” Dick said, voice tight, and heated enough to melt Tim’s skull. “The difference between you and me is that you had a _choice,_ Tim. I didn’t choose to hurt anyone, so—”

He must have seen Tim’s expression, because he froze, full-stop. The anger drained out of his face, and the poison out of his eyes as they widened with sudden horror.

“Timmy, I…I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I didn’t mean that.”

“No, no, it’s…” Tim struggled to swallow down the hurt and think about this logically. “It’s fine. You’re mad. And upset. And…anyone would be, under the circumstances, right? But…I don’t think you’re in full control of your emotions right now, Dick.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…c’mon, you’ve noticed your short fuse lately, right?” Tim asked softly. “And the _glowing eyes?”_

Dick’s face lost its color. “How did you know about that?”

“Because I can &*$%^#& _see_ them.”

The older man gingerly pressed a few fingers under his right eye, but Tim kept going.

“And, let’s face it, random stuff sets you off. You snapped at Babs a few weeks ago just because she snuck out of the house. I mean,” he backpedaled, as Dick’s head snapped up. “I totally get where you were coming from. _Absolutely._ But…be honest, Dick. You guys _never_ fight. Not anymore, at least. And then all of a sudden, you guys blow up at each other like that? That’s not like you.”

Dick frowned. Turned his head to stare out the window. Tim couldn’t see his face, but he knew from the suddenly tense set to the man’s shoulders and the way his fists clenched and his breathing seemed to stop, that Dick was thinking long and hard about something.

“It’s not like us,” Dick agreed slowly. “And…maybe that…that was the _point.”_

“The point?”

Dick straightened, then stood up. The bedsprings creaked at the sudden loss of his weight, and Tim bounced a little on the mattress. His brother spun around, hand carding through his hair as a deep line appeared between his brows.

“The point,” Dick repeated. “The Talons…and Raya…said something about _driving a wedge._ When I got the test results back, I couldn’t figure it out—why Raya and the others would go to all the trouble of setting it up to _look_ like I’d slept with her…if nothing actually happened. But I think—”

It was Tim’s turn to straighten like he’d jammed his finger into a wall socket. “The Court set this up. _I knew it._ ”

“They set it up just so Babs would see,” Dick muttered, eyes narrowing. “They knew we were fighting. I think they manipulated things to put us at odds…Joker’s working for them—”

“Joker’s _what?”_ Tim squawked.

“—so they _knew_ I’d keep Babs at home while we hurried off to deal with him. They must’ve known she wouldn’t stay put, and that we’d butt heads over it.”

Tim’s eyes went wide as the pieces began to click into place. “Add some flirting from an old flame, then a caught-in-the-act confrontation…and stir well for a perfect separation ploy.”

“They ‘drove a wedge’. Split us apart.” Dick’s hand dropped to his side. “But why? What do they have to—”

He stopped.

“Gain,” he whispered.

Tim slid off the bed carefully. “Dick?” he asked, side-eyeing his brother. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Dick slid his phone out of his back pocket, and hurriedly typed in the passcode. The glow of the screen illuminated his panicked face in blue, and Tim hurried to his side.

“Dick?”

“If they know us this well, then they know Babs and I are stronger together,” Dick clipped, fingers fumbling for the message app. “So if they wanted to take us down—”

“—they’d split you apart.” Tim’s eyes went wide. He grabbed Dick’s wrist and stared down at the screen. “Tell her it’s the Owls. Tell her we’ve got a Talon and we need to regroup. Whatever you’ve gotta say to get her back here—"

Dick’s thumbs froze halfway through a typed-out warning. His whole body went completely still, and for a moment, Tim wondered whether his brother had short circuited.

Then, he rested his right thumb on the backspace, deleting the unfinished text completely.

“Dick?” Tim demanded. “Dick, what are you doing?”

He glanced down at the screen and watched his brother type out the words:

 **DICK –** I’m buying you dinner to apologize. We should order takeout. I’m thinking Chinese or Italian. What do you think?

Realization hit Tim like a speeding train, and he took a step back.

“You think they already got to her?”

“I don’t know.”

“What if she doesn’t answer?”

It was a dumb question, and Tim knew it before the words were even completely spoken. The code message was a special system set up by Dick and Babs years ago, and it was an unbreakable rule—when you got the text, you _answered_ the text, no matter what. It didn’t matter how pissed off Barbara was at the moment. Her silent treatment didn’t apply here. She was proud, but not too proud to break such a cardinal rule.

They waited for an eternity, staring at the screen without saying a single word.

If Barbara didn’t answer, that meant something had happened to her or to her phone (a disaster scenario either way, as Babs’s phone was basically indestructible). If they got the words ‘ _Chinese or Italian? No way. I’ll grab us something from Yoshida’s on the way home_ ’ then they were in the clear. (Anything else, any other phrasing or variation…and they’d know.)

But neither of those things happened.

A triplicate of bubbles appeared on the screen. Shimmering with suspense even while both men shivered with dreadful anticipation. Then with a soft buzz, a message popped up in full.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Barbara said nothing else as Talon Rose led her through the bleak hallways, past wandering scientists and technicians and patrolling Talons—all of whom glared out at her from behind the holes of their masks or the lenses of their goggles. She could only bare her teeth in a smiling response. A predatory (but empty) threat. A few of the Court’s lackeys flinched at her expression, before hurrying off. The Talons only stared, and looked away disinterestedly. Just another one of their own, taking the prisoner back to her tormenters. Just another day in this #$%%-hole. 

Cal finally pulled her over to a door at the end of one corridor, and thrust her through the cracked door. Barbara grunted as she hit the ground, hands slapping against the stone tiles to steady herself. When she looked up through the hair that fell over her face, she could see her merry band of torturers standing stoically in a semicircle. They’d been waiting for her.

“My, my, look what the bird dragged in.” James tutted. Barbara could hear the grin in his voice. Tickled pink, as if he didn’t say that _every_ time a Talon hauled her back.

Cal tugged hard on the wire, and Barbara choked as the force dragged her up to her knees. Now she could see them all perfectly. Slade stood front and center with his mighty arms crossed over his chest. Kuttler sat off to the left, typing distractedly at his laptop, pausing occasionally to glare over at her. James had his fingers dipped into the tray of torture instruments that had been set out on a rolling metal table, and Strange hovered grimly by his side. The latter man was holding a wrapped ice-pack to his jaw, scowling through the black eye and fat lip that he sported like badges of shame.

Barbara couldn’t help the smirk that twisted at her mouth.

“She was confused, and wandered off,” Cal told them firmly, as the vultures seemed to circle closer. “The pain muddled her mind and—”

“Is that what she told you?” Strange snapped, turning to glare down at her. The ice he held to his face crunched in his tightening grip. “Nice try, you little minx. _I_ have another version of events, if anyone would like to hear it!”

“So,” Slade growled, ignoring them both to zero in on Barbara. “You got out again. But tell me something, sweetheart. How much does it sting, knowing you got _so_ close to escape, only to be dragged right back down to the pit from whence you came?”

Her fingers played with the wire around her throat, doing her best to alleviate the pressure on her windpipe. “Honestly,” she croaked, “It’s barely a pinprick, *$$#*%^. Cause every time, I get just a little bit closer.”

“She’s making you all look like blundering fools,” Calvin chided them, twisting his end of the wire through his fingers, almost playfully.

“What—” Barbara scoffed, “like it’s hard?”

The mercenary stalked forwards, hands swinging at his sides, and Barbara knew she was either in for a backhand or a chokehold. Her muscles tensed instinctively.

 _Backhand, it was._ Barbara’s head snapped to the side, and she could feel the heat flare on her skin where it had split open. But she grit her teeth and swallowed back her cry of pain. She wouldn’t give him the  &*#% satisfaction.

Deathstroke towered over her, looking down darkly. “Twelve times you’ve played hooky, little girl—”

“Fourteen,” Cal corrected, helpfully.

At least _someone_ remembered. Barbara’s eyes rolled up. “ _Thank_ you.”

Slade looked like a man who was just a few seconds away from an aneurism. She could see his jaw working now—a sure-fire way to tell that he was annoyed. His good eye twitched slightly, which meant that she could only push him just a _little_ bit farther before he lost his temper. And Slade Wilson’s lost temper usually meant fun little surprises like death or dismemberment.

He growled, eye falling shut for just a second before it snapped back open. “It would appear our security—” The eye flicked up to Talon Rose, and narrowed. “—is somewhat lax.”

Calvin’s snarl rumbled in his chest.

“Ah, cut the act, Slade. Your security’s fine—I’m still here, aren’t I?” Barbara shrugged, eyes locking onto Slade’s. “No, no, if _anything,_ the blame goes to Huge-O over there, and anyone who _seriously_ thought he’d be a good pick for babysitting duty. This is all on them.”

Strange let out a squawk of indignance, but Slade could only stare down at her. He watched her carefully, eye narrowed to a thin, calculating slit. James’s fingers rattling through the metal tools and Kuttler’s fingers on the keys were the only sounds left in the room. Barbara found that she still had enough strength left in her to glare him down, her own eyes going narrow.

“Three weeks,” Deathstroke muttered, like he was a parent who’d just been handed a disappointing report card. “Three weeks we’ve had you, and _still—”_

“Three _marvelous_ weeks,” James almost moaned. He’d selected a dental pick and rolled it absently between his fingers, playing with the curved, needle-sharp tip with obvious delight.

Slade’s eye twitched in annoyance once again, as he turned slightly to the others. “If we had more time…”

“We don’t.” Kuttler’s voice snapped like the sound of his thumb pounding the spacebar. His gaze darted up to Barbara, and as her eyes locked on his, a slimy smile spread up his lips. “Unfortunately.”

Deathstroke pinched the bridge of his nose between two squeezing fingers and let out a huff of a sigh. The others wisely kept quiet during this display of forced calm, though they watched him carefully. He glanced down at Barbara’s kneeling form once more. Then he crouched, meeting her at eye-level.

He was close enough now, that she could feel his hot breath puffing against her face. The smell made her nose wrinkle. “You’re a tough nut to crack, huh, Barbie-doll? And you’re not breaking anytime soon, are you?”

She blinked away the stench and raised an eyebrow. “Personally, I’d like to hope I’ll drive you all insane first.”

Slade grit his teeth, anger flashing momentarily over his features. But then, suddenly, they smoothed over into something much more serene. He reached up, cupping her chin in his gloved hand. Barbara noted that there were still stains of her blood drying in the webs of his fingers from their last session together.

“If only we had more time, sweetheart.” His touch felt like a caress, and it made the hair on the back of her neck prickle in warning. “Just think of all the fun we could have. You may be a Bat, but I’m sure you’d shatter _beautifully._ Give me a month, and I’d have you thinking your name was Nancy Drew. And…hmm…I’ll bet with a few more weeks—you’d be calling me ‘daddy’ while we—”

A wad of her saliva splattered across his face. Not easy—she was too dehydrated. But it was enough that Deathstroke flinched back in disgust.

“ _Go #* &% yourself_,” she hissed.

The hand under her chin dragged away to wipe the wetness from under his eye. Then it moved suddenly, and Barbara _flinched,_ expecting pain.

But the back of his hand stilled, inches from her cheek, and a thin smirk spread up Slade’s face.

“Progress,” he noted with some interest. Then, sighed. “But not enough.”

“No, not enough. She really isn’t going to break, is she?” James’s sing-song voice drifted over, and James himself followed. His footsteps tapped against the cold tile floor until he was standing at Slade’s side. The tip of the dental pick pricked against the delicate skin of Barbara’s cheek. Dragged down. Hard enough to scratch, but not enough to draw blood—not yet. “Not unless we dig a little bit _deeper._ She should pay for running off again, mm? I call dibs. _”_

Barbara fixed her stone-cold scowl on her cousin, and briefly wondered what it would be like to saw _his_ fingers off with a butter knife.

Cal started, suddenly, and snapped, “She followed me back, willingly. There’s no need for further punishment.”

Kuttler spoke up, fingers finally falling silent. “ _That’s_ where you’re wrong, Talon. And it’s also where Gordon and Wilson are _right.”_

Every head in the room swiveled to the weaselly man perched on the rolling chair in the corner, hunched over a triplicate of laptops like Golem over his precious ring. Kuttler seemed to revel in the attention, reaching up to straighten his glasses with a knowing smirk. Then, he continued.

“We’ve bled this little brat dry, gentlemen. And she shows no sign of snapping in time for us to meet our deadline. _So.”_ The sheer satisfaction written on the man’s face made Barbara’s skin bristle with goosebumps. _“_ It would seem that the ‘superior’ techniques employed by Deathstroke and the serial killer aren’t as…’superior’ as they’d boasted.”

James and Slade both bristled. Kuttler went on, unperturbed by the fact that he’d ticked off two of the most trigger-happy ‘gentlemen’ in the room.

“Which brings us to _my_ solution.”

Strange cleared his throat, scowling over the edge of the ice-pack.

“ _Our_ solution,” Kuttler amended. “The procedure.”

Calvin tensed behind her, and Barbara bit the side of her cheek.

“Untested,” Slade growled, springing to his feet, “And unsafe. What are you going to tell the Court and their high-and-mighty Grandmaster if your precious little chunk of circuits fries her brain? You saw how angry they were when I put a bullet through her skull—what are they going to say when you _blow her_ _& *#%_ _head off?”_

“I’m insulted, Wilson.” Kuttler’s hand fluttered up. With a twist of his wrist, he produced a small computer chip between two fingers. Like a magician with a card trick—or a madman with a flair for showmanship. “ _This_ elegant piece of hardware is _hardly_ a ‘chunk of circuits’. Strange, tell him.”

Hugo huffed, lowering the cold compress to the surgical table. He shot Barbara a withering glance, before he straightened and announced to the group, “Indeed. As our technical specialist over there has emphasized, the chip is properly functional, and I can assure you all that the procedure is quite safe. I’ve already gone to the lengths to test the nano-technology contained inside on this… _charming_ young woman.”

Barbara frowned, mentally flipping through every single session she’d endured the past several weeks. She’d been waterboarded, burned, cut, drugged…but as far as she knew, nothing had been _tested_ on her. So, when did he…?

Oh. _Oh._

The asylum. The injection. The forced memories and emotions. Her mind had the facts right in front of her, scattered like puzzle pieces, but she struggled to fit them together into something comprehensible. If that was part of the chip Kuttler held in his hand, then…did that mean…?

“The effects were predictable, and the results were most satisfactory. As we hypothesized, the operating frequency of the device did not interfere with the frequency of her neural implant. The two pieces can coexist peacefully, allowing her full mobility, even as her mind becomes ours.”

“I think you mean, ‘as her mind becomes the _Court’s’_ ,” Calvin corrected sharply.

Strange blinked. “Of course.”

Barbara’s fingers froze around the wire. Her eyes twitched just a bit wider.

“When do we implement it?” Slade asked dryly. “Does she need any prep? I hear you shouldn’t eat or drink before surgery, but I doubt that’ll be a problem, in this case…”

At the reminder of food, Barbara’s stomach rumbled traitorously.

Kuttler stood. Stepped over to the table. “Is that sarcasm I detect, Wilson? Hn. Obviously, we implement the procedure immediately. As for prep…well, that comes _after.”_

“What do you mean?” James demanded.

“In order to properly calibrate the device,” Strange explained slowly—as if he were speaking to a toddler—and her cousin bristled. “We need to trigger certain responses. The chip will learn how to curb her impulses and soothe her temper, but only through—”

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea to explain the workings of a piece of _tech_ in front of the _Oracle,”_ Slade snapped, which shut everyone up. Barbara scowled up at him, ticked that he’d cut things off just when they were getting _good._ But he ignored her easily, clasped his hands behind his back, and raised an eyebrow at the Talon. “You. Bring her over. Gordon, prep the anesthesia. Strange, Kuttler, you’ll be handling the procedure.”

“And what about you?” James pouted.

Slade’s face betrayed a thin smirk. “Well, you know me, Jimbo. I like to watch.”

Everyone scurried to comply. Calvin hesitated, then helped Barbara to stand up. The second she was on her feet, she thrust an elbow into the Talon’s gut and pulled hard to the side.

If she’d been up to full strength, maybe had some food in her system, the blow would have bent him in half. The side-step would have broken his grip. She could have snagged the wire from his fingers, and taken off back down the way they’d come. Barbara would have bolted for the nearest exit—screw whatever _this_ was. She hadn’t let them in her head so far, and she’d be &*#%^& if she stood around and let them kick down the door.

But she wasn’t up to full strength. And Talon barely grunted in response as his hands wrapped around her arms and he dragged her towards the table.

“ _No,”_ she screeched through her teeth, dragging her bare heels against the floor. Her skin rubbed horribly against the stone, but that was the least of her worries. “ _No—don’t—_ let me _go—_ son of a &!^$#—don’t—!”

Calvin swept her off her feet in the worst possible way, and dumped her onto the table. Her spine cracked against the metal surface, and she shrieked, struggling as Strange and James both snagged her wrists. She kicked her legs, and Slade and Cal each grabbed an ankle. All Barbara could do was scream and rage at them as they buckled her limbs into the restraints. They clattered a little as she pulled, but didn’t give.

All she could do was go limp, panting as she glared up at them all.

“I’ll kill you,” Barbara promised weakly. Just like she did every time.

“You’ll try,” Slade recited—same as always—with a smug grin that she would have paid anything to smack off his face.

But then he paused as a soft chime tinged in the air. Tilted his head slightly to the side as he eyed her, and slipped his hand into one of his pockets.

With a flourish, he slid out a sleek black phone. _Her_ phone. The mercenary took a dramatized look at the screen, and Barbara flinched back at the sight of it, biting down on her tongue as she caught a glimpse of that satisfied smile of his stretching even wider. Slade’s eye flicked up to hers, lingering for a moment, before he said,

“On second thought, boys, we should get the lady’s hand healed up, first. Where’s Cain?”

The answer to that question was the same it always was: hovering just out of sight and just within earshot. She appeared when she was bidden, silver vial in hand.

Soundlessly, Cassandra floated to Barbara’s side. Her face was drawn, eyes drooping with something akin to sorrow as she stared down at the captive’s face. In a gesture of sympathy, she reached out a hand, and unraveled the wire from around Barbara’s throat, letting it fall to the side without further ceremony.

“Where are her fingers? Ah, here we go!”

James placed them in Cassandra’s waiting palm, and the girl winced slightly before she immediately went about reattaching them.

Barbara always expected the cold sensation. It was searing and prickling, and just as painful as any torture the others dealt out. The difference, though, between her sessions with the men and her revival sessions with Cass was the intent. The others taunted her, goaded her, and dragged out her pain for as long as they could. But Cassandra’s ministrations were laced with comforting touches and empathetic frowns. The smaller girl had no words, but she didn’t need them to help give Barbara some semblance of solace.

The liquid trickled over the wound, and Barbara could feel the itching sensation of her skin stitching itself back together. When it was done, she flexed her hand experimentally. All five digits were in working order.

Slade, though, wasn’t done with her yet.

“Now that _that’s_ taken care of…” He waved the phone cavalierly, stepping closer to invade her space. “I just got the sweetest message. Would you like to hear it?”

Every fiber in her being wanted so badly _not_ to.

If it was another from Tim, begging her to come home for the others’ sakes…or from Jason, railing at her for abandoning them _again_ …she’d lose what little nerve she still had. Slade loved to rub her face in those. ‘ _Now, why_ don’t _you get the #$%% back to Gotham, sweetheart?_ _Oh, right, you’re a little preoccupied at the moment.’_ If it was another sweetly confused message from Stephanie, urging her to realize that ‘Dina’s not herself, and neither is Dick, so why can’t you just give us a call?’ she’d cry, and James always loved seeing her resolve shatter. _‘Is that a tear I see? Mmm…maybe we should bring the baby sister in and make her scream, too? I’ll bet they’d harmonize_ so _prettily.’_ Or if the message was another stiffly eloquent paragraph from Dami urging her to set aside her own pride and return to Gotham to fulfill her duties (really, the thinly veiled begging of a confused little kid), she’d lose it completely.

But it was none of those. It was even worse—

“Another heart-wrencher from our handsome lover-boy.” Slade sneered, and the others let out ‘ _oooh_ ’s of interest that made her skin crawl.

“Don’t,” she whispered, but it was lost in the hooting of her torturers.

It was so much _worse,_ hearing from Dick.

Just a few days after her capture, they’d strapped her down to this same table for the first of many rounds of ‘electro-shock therapy’. While James had been cackling over the switch, and Strange busied himself taping the electrodes to her skin, Slade’s pocket had chimed for the first time (at least, as far as she knew). Deathstroke smirked, and wandered over, reading it aloud.

_‘I know you hate me right now. But can we please talk?’_

Slade had leaned in, sneering.

 _“You want to know something absolutely delicious?”_ he asked her, voice oily with supreme self-satisfaction. _“The little fight you two had—you know, when you ‘caught him in the act’? What if I were to tell you it was all orchestrated, right down to the last detail? What if I told you…that Dickie didn’t exactly get a say in the matter?”_

Horror—pure and unadulterated—had sluiced through her veins, prickled across her skin, and mugged up her head until her mind was drenched in fog. Her mouth fell open. But Slade pushed it further.

 _“That’s right. They had your boy raped, sweetheart. Slipping a little something into his drink was simple enough—didn’t you realize the poor kid was drugged out of his mind? Couldn’t you see it? You should have, Barbie-doll. You should have_ done _something. Now, tell me, what kind of detective—what kind of a_ partner— _does that make you?”_

 _“I didn’t—"_ she’d gasped, even as tears rolled down her cheeks. _“I—”_

_“And when he tried to tell you…what did you do, again?  My sources seem to think that you slapped him right across his face and essentially told him to go to #$%%. Now, I didn’t take you for the victim-blaming type, Barbie, but that’s cold even for you.”_

And that revelation—that shock—had hurt worse than any torture. It _gutted_ her.

_What had she done?_

Dozens of times after that, it was the same thing. Dick’s messages were pleading. Frantic. Angry. Remorseful. Barbara could hear his cycle of emotions through everything he wrote her. Could practically imagine him there right beside her, begging her to come home, deriding her for the radio-silence, and quietly, hopefully, nudging her and asking for any sign that she’d heard him.

She knew the shifting tones that changed like weather forecasts were a symptom of something a lot more pressing: Dick was worried out of his mind.

 _“He shouldn’t be,”_ Slade mused. _“After all the $#!^ you put him through? That poor kid’s whipped, isn’t he? If only he knew what a snake you really are.”_

And then, one morning, he told her, _“I think we’ll reply today. Now, how does that sound?”_

Barbara hadn’t been able to answer through the metal rod strapped between her teeth.

 _“He says—listen to this one, boys—‘Name your price, babe._ Anything. _Just please…’”_ Slade simpered. _“’Please answer me.’”_

 _“Tell him to go %* &# himself,” _Kuttler suggested with glee.

 _“No, no,”_ James insisted. _“Go for the heartstrings. Tell him that he broke our girl’s heart, and she’ll never take him back—"_

Strange threw up a hand and told them, voice calm, _“Now, remember. He still expects our little bird to be quite angry with him. Go for something direct. Something dismissive.”_

 _“You’re right, she’s a bit more of a &!^$#.” _Slade had smirked, thumbs already tapping at Barbara’s phone screen. _“’Undercover, Dick,’”_ he read slowly, as he typed in the letters. _“’Don’t bother me.’”_

And _this_ time—in the here and now—it wasn’t any less painful.

“Is it another declaration of his undying love?” James asked from his place by the anesthesia machine, voice dripping with irony. “Those are _just_ the _juiciest.”_

 _“I_ can’t wait to hear another chafing piece about what her silence is doing to his poor heart.” Kuttler swooned, eliciting laughter from the other three men. Only Cal and Cassandra were silent, watching Barbara’s face twist in agony.

“Alright, alright, boys,” Slade snapped, waving a hand to silence their chatter. “We’ve got a couple all lined up. Listen to this one—' _Babs. I miss you so much. There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t think about you.’_ Now, isn’t that just the sweetest?”

The others let out a sound that had Barbara cringing back.

“Aww,” James crooned. He was playing with the plastic oral mask, swinging it around on its tube like a taunt. “It’s so nice to know the Ken doll still misses his widdle Barbie.”

“That’s just the first one,” Deathstroke said with a smirk. “Next, we’ve got ‘ _I know you’re still mad. But would you please just come by for dinner? Alfred’s worried about you. We all are.’”_ Slade tutted sympathetically, and ran a thumb down the side of Barbara’s face. “Tell me, dearest, which one do you miss more? Grampa or your boy-toy?”

Barbara bit down on her lip so hard she could taste iron.

Cassandra’s fingers tightened on the edge of the table. The rest of her body language and her facial expression were schooled into smooth calm, betraying nothing.

Cal turned his head away. “Is this truly necessary?”

Slade’s eye twitched in annoyance. “Quite,” he said, straightening up. He waved the phone like a challenge. “And don’t worry, Owl-man. There’s just one more.”

Barbara tipped her chin up, letting the back of her head slide on the metal. She could take it. She could take this just like she took everything else. All she had to do was zone out—

 _‘I am in a dome,’_ she thought vaguely. ‘ _And in that dome, there is a ma—a maze—no, not a maze…a…there is a hallway…’_

But Deathstroke’s cruel voice broke through her barriers, and Barbara’s attention was snapped up by a handful of familiar— _very_ familiar—words.

 _“’I’m buying you dinner to apologize. We should order takeout. I’m thinking Chinese or Italian. What do you think?’”_ Slade recited, word for word. She could hear the confusion in his tone, and even the others stopped whatever they were doing to look up and frown.

“He’s buying her dinner?” Kuttler repeated incredulously. “We didn’t even reply, yet.”

“As far as he’s concerned, she is still undercover.” Strange’s eyes narrowed.

James tsked. “So, what? I say we have her tell him to take that dinner and shove it right up his—”

“Wait.” Slade’s eye narrowed at the screen as he peered closer. His gaze flicked up to Barbara and Cassandra—both girls had lit up immediately. Barbara, because she knew those words, and those words _meant_ something. Cassandra, because when she saw Barbara’s head rise off the table, eyes fluttering wide and face opening up with a sudden flash of hope, it had her reaching for just a little bit of hope as well.

The mercenary’s jaw clenched. “Something’s not right about this text.” He was talking to Barbara, now. “Tell me what it is.”

The back of her skull thumped back down against the table. “It’s a text.” she said, with false weariness. “There’s nothing ‘not right’ about it. All he’s asking is if I want Chinese or Italian. Get on with it and tell him I want his head on a plate, or whatever, alright?”

James was nodding…but Strange was staring at her through lidded eyes.

He stepped closer, and snagged her jaw in between two fingers, one of which slid close to her ear, pressing. Barbara’s eyes twitched over the pudgy man’s face, and she grit her teeth.

“She’s lying,” the doctor told them, releasing her face with a huff. “Her pupils are dilating and her pulse is elevated. Which means—”

“—she’s excited,” Slade finished. He stalked over to the tray of instruments, and snagged one of the metal tools up with deft fingers. It looked a little like one of James’s dental picks, only it was larger, thicker, sharper, and seemed more like a pirate’s hook than anything that might be used for cleaning teeth. Barbara’s gaze fixed in place on the curved, pointed metal tip. The mercenary stepped up closer, and pressed it just a hair above her protruding collar bone. “Tell us what’s going on in that little head of yours, doll.”

The ‘or’ was left unsaid. There was no need for one, anyway.

“Is it some kind of secret code? A signal phrase? A cipher?” The point pressed deeper into Barbara’s skin until a bead of scarlet welled up beneath the sharp tip.

It stung like #$%%, but Barbara was used to it. She shook her head.

“How many times are we going to have this dance?” she breathed, choking back a squeak of pain as the tip dug in with renewed malice. “I’m not telling you— _ssst—anything._ I just think it’s cute he’s texting me about food— _ah!_ ”

Slade’s hand shoved down, and the tip punched through the hollow of her clavicle. Barbara let out a shriek as he twisted the tip, curling its curve beneath the bone, then yanked up hard.

“ _Tell us,”_ he demanded.

“N-huh- _no.”_

He twisted harder. Yanked with more force. Barbara’s upper half was hoisted off the table, and she let out a piercing scream as the bone cracked.

“ _Tell us now!”_ Slade roared. “Or I scramble your spine, next!”

Through the sheer veil of pain that was clouding her mind over, Barbara snatched at straws. Anything she could say. Any way to make the pain stop, even if it was just a lie…just…just a…

_There._

“You—you’re right,” she gasped, letting a pair of tears drip out the corners of her eyes. Then whimpered. “ _Hnn-nn.”_

“Explain.”

“’S a code. It’s’a secret code we have to—to keep each other safe… _please.”_

Slade ripped the hook from her flesh, and Barbara’s eyes rolled back into her head. The bloodstained tool clattered against the metal tray, and the mercenary whipped out her phone, leering down at her as he demanded, “Then what’s the correct response? To let him know you’re just fine and dandy?”

“Eat— _heh—_ eat me,” she spat, trying not to breathe too hard. The rise and fall of her chest was pure, unmitigated agony.

Slade reached again for the tray.

“Wait!” Barbara gasped. “Wait, no. No. No, no, it’s…”

“I’m on the edge of my seat,” Deathstroke prompted.

“Tell him that—tell him I want the Chinese,” she breathed, letting out a dry sob. “That’s…that’s how he’ll know I’m…I’m okay.”

The one-eyed man regarded her coldly. His eyebrow twitched up, unconvinced. But then he turned to Kuttler, and tossed him the phone. “Check her history. All of it.”

The bespectacled man caught it deftly, and plugged it into a cable hanging from his little makeshift desk. Barbara could hear his fingers flying _tip tap clack_ across the keys, and she breathed a shaky sigh.

Her eyes locked on Cassandra’s, and she could read the smaller girl’s expression loud and clear.

_You’re still lying._

Barbara winked, weakly.

“Whatsa matter? Don’t… _heh…_ t-trust me?” she croaked.

Slade turned back to smile poisonously down on her. “Tsk, tsk, darling. I wouldn’t trust you if you said the sky was blue. What’ve you got for us, Kuttler?”

The man looked up from his screens with a thin frown. “There’s an identical message between the two of them from a few weeks ago. The correct answer is ‘Yoshida’.”

Barbara’s heart sank.

No, that was too nice a way to put it. Her heart _plummeted._

Cassandra saw the look on her face, and her fingers wrapped discreetly around Barbara’s thumb. A small gesture of comfort. A silent apology.

“Perfect.” Slade’s shark-smile grew. He took the phone back with a sweep of his hand, and punched in the code. “Now. Let’s try _‘I’d say get me something from Yoshida but I’m not big on eating your bull$#!^.’_ And… _send.”_

And just like that, wouldn’t you know it, Barbara’s heart sprouted wings.

 _Don’t react,_ Cassandra warned her silently. _If I can read you, so can they._

That wasn’t exactly true, but Barbara felt a little too weary to give a proper rebuttal. All she could do was shoot Cass another stuttered wink. It probably looked more like she was having a seizure, but she hoped that the other girl got the gist.

“Now.” Slade put the phone away. “You’ll pay for that lie, dearest, but in the meantime…it looks like we’re clear to proceed, gentlemen.”

James’s hand pressed down against her forehead.  Holding her in place while he slipped the oral mask over her mouth. She thrashed a little, but her movements stung like the fires of #$%%. So the most she gave him was a two second delay, and once the mask was strapped into place, James threw the switch. A soft hiss met Barbara’s ears, and she could feel the gas begin to cloud around her mouth and nose.

Her vision began to blur out. She blinked a few times, and glanced up at Cassandra, who frowned down at her worriedly.

Strange pushed her head to the side, forcing her cheek against the cold surface of the table.

But she could still see the other girl just fine. One more wink to let her know everything would be okay—a lie neither of them really bought—

—and Barbara slipped out of wakefulness.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When the message appeared in full, it read:

 **DREAM GIRL –** I’d say get me something from Yoshida but I’m not big on eating your bull$#!^.

_Get me something from Yoshida._

It wasn’t the right phrasing.

_It wasn’t the right phrasing!_

Dick’s heart probably stopped beating. Because Tim’s sure did.

The phone hit the floor with a clatter.

But Dick was already dashing out the door.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I still think a hairdryer would be faster,” Steph grumbled.

Zatanna waved her hands over the ice sculpture, muttering under her breath as her irises glowed with pale blue light. Sections of the ice were melting slowly, and the drips of water disappeared into thin air. M’gann’s eyes glowed green as she kept the Talon silent and in place with her mind as he was slowly freed from the casing. So far, they’d only melted down to his waist.

John Grayson’s eyes darted from hero to hero. His mask must’ve been lost in the fight, because his garish face was on full display. His skin was the pale color of a corpse, and it really gave Steph the heebie-jeebies. Especially whenever his creepy zombie eyes landed on hers.

“Zatanna is simultaneously melting and vanishing the ice,” Kaldur retorted, a little irritably. “Both of which take careful concentration. So unless you’d like to have your Cave flooded, I would counsel patience.”

Stephanie scowled.

But everyone looked up when the elevator doors dinged open.

Dick Grayson flew out, crossing the floor in two steps. His eyes were wide and wild. His teeth were bared. Her brother looked like a rabid dog, and Steph half expected to see foam hanging off his lips.

“Where is she?” he growled, like a death threat.

Zatanna’s hands dropped to her sides, concentration officially lost. “Dick, what—”

Tim was just a few seconds behind the oldest Bat. He scurried out of the elevator with hands raised above his head. “M’gann, let him talk!”

Miss Martian frowned—they all knew Tim wasn’t talking about Dick. But as her eyes dimmed, and John Grayson’s head slumped forward, the Talon let out a choke of a sigh. He barely had time to get a breath in before Dick’s fists seized the front of his uniform.

“ _Where is she?”_ he snarled into the assassin’s face. “ _Say something!”_

John blinked, head rolling on his neck as he smirked up at his cousin’s outraged sneer. His golden irises glinted in the Cave’s dim lighting, and the others watched him bare his teeth in a grim grin.

“What’s the matter, Dickie?” he asked innocently. “You lose something?”

Dick shook his cousin and roared, “ _WHERE? TELL ME! NOW!”_

And for a moment, the others watched their friend and brother’s irises light up with liquid gold, matching his cousin’s exactly.

“You don’t get to know that, just yet, _Gray Son.”_ John's smirk was contemptuous. His tone took on a mocking edge. “But don’t worry. She’s in good hands.”

“What’s he on about?” Jason demanded.

M’gann’s eyes went wide.

“Barbara,” Tim choked, as he watched the two Graysons scream at each other, their eyes ablaze.

“ _What?”_

“They took Barbara.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna be a fun one! Credit to James Arthur for the cute lyrics, and Google Earth for the constant surveillance. Maybe the song lyrics were a bit much, but what can I say? :)))  
> Let me know what you guys think!


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